Mothers; Not Heroes, but Lovers
My mother was like a wave that never lost itself in the sea—
a wave that always returned.
Even when she was silent,
she stood from a place of true social presence.
She is no longer among us,
yet her symbol remains—
and the weight she has placed upon our shoulders.
She was not only my mother;
in many ways she embodied the mothers of a generation
who gave meaning to life itself.
The mothers of her generation
endured prisons,
exile,
the massacre of their children,
nervous collapse,
and the agony of not knowing where their loved ones were buried.
They witnessed pain of unimaginable magnitude—
and yet, they did not fall apart.
They reached the brink of breaking,
but they rebuilt life—
and rebuilt it again,
and each time, from the heart of ruin,
they created a new design of standing firm.
They stood with quiet heroism,
though they never called themselves heroes.
They were lovers.
And in the gathering of lovers,
they danced with love—
they did not tremble before severed heads,
they did not flee from darkness,
they did not fear silence.
For what sustained them
was neither myth nor slogan,
but a love without name, without display.
They lived with suffering,
yet stood with dignity.
Not for recognition,
not for history,
but for love.
And today,
their symbolic weight rests upon us.
It is heavy—
yet it is not the weight of breaking.
It is the weight of meaning;
the weight of a trust that must be carried with honesty,
not performance.
My mother was a wave
that did not disappear into the sea—
a wave that returned,
and each return reminded us
that standing is possible;
that even in a storm,
one may bend,
but need not break.
I do not date this piece—
the calendar cannot contain mothers.
In the absence of my mother,
in grey London,
Naser Kamali
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