Thread by @inihelene

My mother went into labour when grenades and bombs were falling like rain over the hospital. Endlessly falling.. The air was heavy, the village was engulfed in flames, sending thick black air into the sky. When she finally made it to the hospital, she became severely ill

But she persisted, despite her body being seconds away from falling apart. Around her, in a larger circle of pain and time, lives were taken away and just outside – one big graveyard. Our salvation was her strength.

The warmth of her embrace undid the toughest knots of ache. My sweet mama. Fear ruled her life, and the only way to survive was to leave, and escaping most likely meant dying. It was better than the alternative – a certain death.

Exhausted, wounded and in pain, you kept going, to get my sisters to safety. When you tell the stories about the atrocities these soldiers put you through, there is a hint of sadness in your voice, as if grief is always present at your doorstep.

From the moment I entered this world, I have never wanted for anything. I know you don’t want me to, but I cry for you when I think about your past. Our past. There are not many people who would dare to speak up against people who murdered their family. But you did. In The Hague.

You always tell me that we don't live in grief all the time but it's always with us. I am honoured to be your daughter, today and everyday, mama. The present is ours and my future is yours. Happy #MuslimWomensDay