Words

Writing is influential, it was always Zainab’s first choice for communicating important thoughts. Speech was difficult for her as a child, learning to read and write provided refuge. Reading opened new worlds, writing allowed her to be heard, to take time to express herself in a thoughtful way. Zainab often did not know what she felt or thought. It is only through writing that she figured her own thoughts and feelings. Writing had served her well in university, at work and even in personal relationships. She learned about the power of writing to heal in grade 12.

At the end of grade eleven, Zainab separated herself from friends, she had had for many years. She needed to because they were doing things, she wanted no part of. Grade twelve was lonely, it wasn’t easy to change friends. Her grade twelve English teacher, aunt to her former best friend, was privy to knowledge of why she separated herself and taught her how to journal for self-healing. It was a skill she leaned on throughout difficult times. Writing was a tool for her, she never considered it a craft. Zainab used her tool to fight prejudice in many housing situations; when her son experienced racialized treatment in a dentist clinic. She wielded her pen often for justice but also writing articles and manuals for work, with no thought of ownership. Writing for the greater good, words poured from her easily.

Until that day Zainab’s world changed. The day she understood broken hearts are not just emotional, they’re physical, crippling. She nearly went crazy when she heard. She was slapping her head, trembling, screaming “no”. She was desperate for it to not be true.

Her husband clutched her and held her tight bringing her back to sanity. “You have to pull yourself together for him. He needs you.”

Nodding staring deeply into his eyes. She pulled herself together. She couldn’t go crazy, she couldn’t go and shoot him, neither could her husband. He needed them. They had to be strong and follow the law.

 ”It’s better if parents don’t attend the interview, but they are permitted.“ Advised the police. Zainab had to attend; she couldn’t let him be alone. She had to know what he experienced. If he lived it, she had to know it. She remembered sitting like a stone, watching the police officer flinch, she the stone mother looked at the officer flinching wondering ‘Why? Doesn’t he hear terrible stories all the time?’

 Zainab heard what happened, her husband didn’t he knows but he didn’t hear the description. An innocent telling the details of experience he didn’t understand. Zainab heard it. But she couldn’t scream, cry or rant, she had to be strong for him. She took him to the hospital to be checked and tested. An innocent tested for diseases he never heard of. The hospital was discreet, they have special coding, even the lab technicians didn’t know what the tests were but she knew. She knew but she acted like it was normal. She had to for his sake.

They were supported by victims’ services, given a book. They read the book, they did everything in the book and more. Zainab quit work to homeschool. They trusted no one. Sports - she had to attend. Public washrooms - never alone. No overnight visits with anyone. She functioned to love, provide and protect her children. The days, months and years passed without writing a word.

Writing had always been her coping mechanism, but nothing came out except single words, poetry she ripped up. No words she could keep came for years.

The immediate months after that day their family hobbled, hearts shattered, the world unsafe.

Every month there would be a court appearances. Zainab would be paralyzed with fear the week before; will they make a trial date. Month after month the court deferred. Month after month for 18 months even victim services were surprised at the duration it was taking. Finally, they were given a resolution, a meeting with the arresting police officer and the prosecutor. They agreed no court, counselling, house arrest, restrictions to children. Zainab would agree to anything not to put her son through a court trial. It was agreed no trial.

Writing still was not possible, she tried, even writing an email or simple letter was mechanical. Her heart shattered; writing was lost.

After fifteen years, she joined a writing group, borrowed writing books from the library and started writing words. Words became sentences, sentences paragraphs. Zainab wrote books and poems for kids. The pain stillnot healed, but she safely lets out a little so she can let in some happiness. She began to let her heart feel. It’s a long recovery, the pain shoved deep inside, penetrating her organs. Zainab breathed deep and let out a little pain, the pain was vocal. Her groan deep but she can’t let it all out, the noise, the pain is so raw, so deep and so severe.

She couldn’t kill him, because her son needed her. She survived to care for him. She didn’t have the luxury of losing her mind, and shooting him, that would have been easy. She had to keep it together, cook lunch, drive to soccer practice, teach math, plan and pretend she was ok. She was severed, there was a mechanical Zainab who managed, and the broken Zainab pushed deep out of sight.

Zainab’s first words after many years of not writing.

Green leaves sprinkled with clean white snow. Crisp, pure snow. The branches reaching stretching out towards the sun. Water droplets like tiny pearls, snow melting from the strength of the sun. Full rich bushy branches vibrant green perfectly shaped spindles reaching high for they are glorious. God’s creation. The tree a canvas for millions of tiny individual flakes none like the other. Inner stillness. I feel the need to breath. To let out the air. I hold in. To let myself out. When I breathe deeply and long I release pain. When I don’t focus my breath becomes rapid less controlled. My thoughts race. I try to bring myself in and focus. It’s difficult my body resists.