Holding Time Together: The Unseen Strength of Older Mothers at Work

Across offices, there is a group of women who move through their workdays carrying far more than their laptops. They are older mothers, women standing at the crossroads of two generations, holding together the needs of those launching into work and those nearing the world’s twilight. Their labour is constant, essential, and largely unseen. Yet workplaces continue to operate as if time is linear, responsibilities are singular, and ambition belongs only to the unencumbered. This piece is an attempt to make these women visible, to name the weight they carry, and to question why the structures around them refuse to bend while expecting them to stretch endlessly. The call is to recognise their talents and the immense contribution that they make to the workplace. Bringing compassion, connection and community as well as an ongoing commitment. There are opportunities to be gained from welcoming the contribution of mothers instead of penalising them for their holding and strengthening approach.

I had never intended to become a mother. That was my sister’s role. I was going to travel, see the world and do great things. But life happens and in my case it was being in Sri Lanka in the middle of a conflict and not knowing if I was in the right place or a place that I wanted to be. I thought if I’m pregnant I’ll be able to go home. Then I found I really was pregnant and then everything happened so quickly. I started being sick. The hospitals closed and I had to leave. My work stopped and so many changes took place. All of this led me to focus on motherhood and children. I moved back to the UK and my work was centred around public health, leaving global health behind.

Mothers arrive at work carrying invisible luggage. They move through offices, classrooms, corridors, or shop floors like travellers between time zones, permanently jet-lagged. At one end of the day, they are organising a child’s future, college forms, first flats, late-night phone calls that say, “I don’t know if I’m doing this right.” At the other end, they are holding the fraying threads of the past, doctor’s appointments, pill organisers, conversations that circle back on themselves like a scratched record. In between, mothers are expected to be fully present, fully ambitious, fully tireless, fully taking the load.

The workplace often treats time as a straight road. Progress forward. Earn promotions. Energy is assumed, to rise like a morning sun. But older mothers live in an infinity loop, not a line. Their days are hourglasses constantly flipped: time pouring upwards towards ageing parents while trickling downwards toward their young who still need more than they admit. Work happens in the narrow place between the layers of the sandwich.

In meetings, they sit like translators between generations, fluent in urgency and patience concurrently. They understand deadlines because they’ve lived them, overseeing bedtimes, curfews, and application deadlines, but they also understand fragility. They know that a ringing phone can be an ensuing crisis, an alarm, that a “quick appointment” can become a long goodbye. Their focus is often mistaken for distraction, as if carrying more makes them somehow less. As if experience were a weight instead of ballast. One aspect of their contribution that remains unrecognised is that without them there would be no future, no children.

There is an unspoken clock ticking over their heads. Not the biological one people love to mention, but a professional one, an assumption that their best years are behind them, that their motivation is less, that creativity and innovation belong to the young. Yet older mothers are not fading candles. They are hearth fires: steady, tested, capable of warming many people at once. They have learned efficiency the way sailors learn about the wind, by necessity, by loss, by paying attention. They are the quiet ones, the unobserved leaders with many talents.

Their calendars look like patchwork quilts. A performance review stitched next to a parent-teacher meeting. A budget forecast sewn beside taking a parent to a consultant appointment. Each square tells a different story, but together they make something both durable and beautiful. Still, workplaces often admire the quilt without acknowledging the hands that made it, praising resilience while quietly penalising the cost of it. So many taking away the flexibilities that were gained by all, during the pandemic. The forced return to the office is more burdensome to mothers, removing their last vestiges of flexibility. Engendering guilt rather than providing support.

These pressures don’t fall evenly across cultures. In some countries, multigenerational caregiving is woven into the social fabric, supported by extended families, community networks, or policies that recognise care as collective work. In multicultural communities such as that of Birmingham – a super diverse city - this is clearly visible. In other countries and, particularly in Western, individualistic societies such as that of the UK and in the south, care is treated as an individual responsibility, something to be managed quietly and efficiently, without disrupting professional performance. The result is that older mothers in these contexts carry a double burden: not only the labour itself, but the expectation that they must shoulder it alone. Cultural narratives about independence, productivity, and “professionalism” often erase the reality that care is universal, even if its visibility and support vary dramatically across distinct cultural contexts.

For those with older children, the labour is no longer visible. No nappies, no daycare pickups, so the assumption is freedom. But parenting doesn’t end; it morphs. It becomes guidance instead of guarding, worry instead of watchfulness. Adult children fall and rise on their own, but they still knock on the door of their mother’s mind at odd hours. A crisis when the shit hits the fan of life. Emotional labour doesn’t retire when the child turns eighteen; it just stops being a daily activity with schedules. However, once a mother, always a mother.

Motherhood itself is not a fixed state but an evolving identity. Anthropologists call this matrescence, the lifelong process of becoming and being a mother. It doesn’t end after infancy; it shifts shape as children grow, as responsibilities change, as the mother herself ages. Older mothers are often navigating new phases of this transformation just as workplaces expect them to be static, settled, or past the intensity of caregiving. But matrescence is cyclical, not linear, and its emotional, cognitive, and practical demands continue to ripple through a woman’s life long after the world stops acknowledging them.

And then there are the parents. Once the roots, now the fragile branches. Caring for them while trying to lead teams or build projects feels like walking a tightrope while holding hands on both sides. The workplace applauds balance but rarely provides a net. Flexibility is offered like a favour, not as a recognition of reality.

Older mothers are often told, quietly, politely, to choose. To be more available at work, less committed in their personal lives. But they are not divided; they are layered. Like sedimentary rock, their strength comes from accumulation. Every year adds pressure, but also depth. Motherhood provides skills that stay unrecognised. Mothers become leaders from the fires of motherhood but are rarely seen as such.

If workplaces learned to see older mothers clearly, they would recognise not a liability but a bridge. These women know how to manage crises without theatrics, how to listen across difference, how to think long-term because they are living long-term. They are proof that care and competence are not opposites. Seeing them in their fullness would bring compassion into organisations.

They are not running out of time. They are holding it together, past, present, and future, in both hands, and still showing up to work. Yet they are penalised rather than commended. The motherhood penalty is real and remains.

Older mothers are not asking for applause for doing what love asks of them. They are demanding recognition that the world of work has not kept pace with the world of care. They are asking for systems that understand that responsibility does not diminish with age; it deepens. When workplaces choose to see older mothers clearly, not as liabilities, but as leaders shaped by lived experience, they gain employees who know how to navigate crisis, cultivate patience, and hold competing priorities without dropping the thread. These women are already holding time together for everyone else. It’s time workplaces held space for them in return. Mothers need others to see that a nine to five regime does not give them space to flourish. Love is an essential part of life and work it does not begin in grand gestures. It begins in small acts of tenderness, towards the self and each other.

“When I let my heart soften slowly, I discover its quiet power, steady compassionate, unafraid”.escription text goes here

She rose early, anticipation flowing through her body. She washed and styled her hair, put on her grey suit, stepped into her black high heels, and wrapped her black scarf neatly. She wore less makeup than usual, and although she usually carried a large backpack, today she chose a small black handbag that matched her heels. She organized the presentation papers inside it carefully. 

Just as she was about to step out the door, she heard her mother's voice. 

“Don’t go, my dear,” her mother said, gazing at her from head to toe with concern. The hair that peeked out from under Zahra’s scarf seemed to reflect the worry in her mother’s eyes. 

“It’s not safe to leave the house. There are many roamers,” her father added earnestly, standing behind her mother. 

Her fingers trembled with anxiety, but she didn’t let them see her fear. 

“This is something I must do,” she said, standing tall. “Nothing will happen. Don’t worry, Mom.” 

But her parents insisted again. 

“At least wear something more appropriate—just in case something happens,” her father implored. The concern in his eyes was unmistakable. She saw the lines on his face that spoke of the battles he had faced as a teacher during the Mujahedeen era in Badakhshan, instructing girls in Persian literature. She knew he believed in her cause because of the stories he once told with pride. 

Despite the anxiety and the weight of their warnings, she stepped out and walked toward the bus station under the hot sun, the uphill road making every step harder. She was sweating, breathing heavily, and filled with nervous thoughts. Despite the war raging outside the city and the daily reports of killings, on this backstreet, the clipping of her heels on the tarmac was the loudest sound. 

After several minutes, she finally made it. 

The street was crowded with people frantically buying fruit and vegetables as if it were their last chance. The smell of fresh watermelon, peaches, cherries, and vegetables filled the air. Nobody lingered longer than necessary—there was no laughter, no light conversations. Over the rooftops, the familiar mountains looked down on Kabul, catching the soft morning light. They stood silent, like eternal witnesses to injustice, fear, and instability. 

Everyone around her seemed to be simply trying to survive. 

She thought of all the ambitions she had carried for years—ambitions that now felt within reach. Wearing her chosen outfit, speaking words that had inspired her since youth, she imagined herself charismatic, inspiring, and supportive. Sitting above all these dreams was her vision: a personal counseling office with a library, a psychology lab, a café blending East and West, and a gym—a complex center of hope she had dreamed of. 

It was a beautiful goal that would come true—if they let her. 

Her mother would be proud on the day Zahra achieved her dreams—the mother who had always waited to see her daughter graduate, to see her shine at her prom. 

She waited impatiently for the bus, eager to reach the university before it was too late. 

When the bus finally arrived, a nervous sigh escaped her lungs. She sat down, took out her papers, and began practicing her presentation under her breath. At first, the chatter around her faded into background noise. 

Until certain words caught her attention. 

“It would be good if the Taliban returned,” a middle-aged man with a fist-length beard said. “People - especially women with trendy outfits - are too distracted from Islam.” He sat beside another similarly conservative man. Their discussion chilled her—pessimistic and threatening. 

As she processed their words, all her hopes, goals, and dreams for herself and for the people seemed to dim. How could social change take root when such a large portion of the population still clung to outdated cultural norms—regardless of a country’s need or progress? 

She believed that thousands of girls on their way to schools, universities, and courses felt the same. And yet, everything they had was now drowning in darkness. 

The bus’s brakes jolted her back to reality. She looked around. Fear had gripped the city. 

But she remained hopeful that she—and millions of girls like her—would find a way. It wasn’t the first time women in this land stood alone, unsupported, poor, and brokenhearted. 

The voices on the bus echoed values completely opposite to her own. As the bus neared the university, her eyes welled with tears. 

At the university gates, everything felt chaotic. The security guard in a dark green uniform with a gun slung across his belt warned her: 

“It’s better to go back home. The security situation isn’t good.” 

She didn’t care. 

She entered the university and headed toward the first building of Kabul Educational University, walking through the long, dim atrium on the second floor toward the meeting point near the library. There, she found her classmates—Saman, Rauf, and Wahab. All well-dressed, wearing fancy perfumes that filled the corridor. 

Students whispered anxiously. Smiles tried to mask the emotions, but their eyes betrayed them—sadness, disappointment, fear—unspoken but undeniable. 

“Wahab, how is it going? Where do we start from?” Zahra asked. 

“We were supposed to begin with your opening speech, then the teachers. But due to the security situation, we've been told to postpone the event,” Wahab replied. 

“Postpone it?” Saman interjected. “I don’t think we’ll ever have it again. Everything’s gone.” 

They stepped out of the dark atrium into the blinding sunlight. 

Suddenly, they noticed an argument. A young man was mocking a girl with blond hair and a short dress and jeans.

“Let’s see what you’ll wear when the Taliban are back,” he sneered.

The girl was upset and mad at him. Zahra could see that she was trying to tell him what she wanted to say but she avoided it.

This wasn’t just a normal conversation—it was the collapse of hope, knowledge, femininity, and the resurgence of patriarchy under extremist religious dominance. 

Under a large leafy tree, Zahra, Saman, and Maruf reminisced about their best memories at university. 

“We might never meet again. Please take care of yourself,” Saman said, choking up. Tears silenced her. It felt like a tragic movie—no matter how hard you tried to stay in it, you drowned, not in beauty, but in suffering. 

“Come on, you’re crazy. Don’t worry—nothing will happen, I promise,” Rauf said. Even though he knew nothing for sure, he just wanted to give hope. 

At that moment, Zahra carried deep sadness, knowing in her heart that everything had changed; this day, the 15th August 2021, would be another turning point in the history of her country. 

To break the heavy silence, Saman said, “I have to go to my aunt’s home.” 

Zahra watched as Saman’s aunt, an arts professor who lived on campus, embraced her with arms full of love and worry. The scent of Saman’s perfume, the warmth of the sun, and the unspoken sorrow of a nation, stayed behind. 

Zahra now felt even lonelier. With a broken soul, tortured mind and nervous body, she wondered how she could get back home. 

Suddenly, she remembered her colleague Tariq, from the news agency, who had told her the day before that he was rushing to get passports for his family. She called him. It was around 10am. He was outside! She would be able to go back home with him.

He asked her to meet him at the Avenue, where it was crowded. 

Zahra and Rauf walked out of the university. The traffic outside was worse than ever. Students fled hostels. Army vehicles poured in from Paghman, where fighting had broken out the night before. 

Then she saw it. In the distance. Something unthinkable. 

A convoy of green army trucks—vehicles meant to symbolize national security— now filled with Taliban fighters, wearing traditional clothes and white turbans. One wore a black vest and held a gun, his face covered. 

A wave of panic gripped her. Her hands shook. Her heartbeat raced. 

What if they punish me now? What if they burn the university? The libraries? The stories she had heard of the Taliban before 2001 flooded her mind. 

A car horn broke her spiral. She realized the nightmare was real—this was the Taliban in government vehicles. 

Tariq called—he was waiting near Polytechnic University. After a short walk, she spotted him. 

She hugged Rauf goodbye—another farewell that felt final. 

Inside Tariq’s grey car, everything smelled familiar—his perfume, the memory of working on reports together. But his eyes, reflected in the mirror, were red. The radio spoke cheerfully, oblivious to the fear on the streets. 

They were stuck in traffic between Kate Parwan and Mamorin Avenue for two hours. 

Zahra received ten calls—her mother, father, sister, Saman, Adiba—all frantic. 

“Where are you? Don’t you know the Taliban are everywhere?” her sister, Mursal, cried on the phone. 

Eventually, they decided to walk. 

After ten minutes, she couldn’t hide her pain—heels were not meant for this. Tariq asked a nearby shop for flip-flops. They kindly gave her a light brown pair. Not perfect, but better than nothing. 

They walked for hours toward Khair Khana, passing chaos, fear, and gunfire. She wasn’t even going to her own home—but her sister’s. 

Before saying goodbye to Tariq, they sat in silence, contemplating what was next. 

At the doorstep, her sister hugged her tightly and began to cry. Having lived through the first Taliban regime, she understood too well what was coming. Her tears carried fear—for her daughters, for Zahra, for all Afghan women. 

For a while, no one spoke. 

Zahra sat in the hallway, lost in her thoughts. 

“It’s a new beginning,” she whispered, “a new life—one lived in darkness

Stripped

Sore from the grip of her fountain pen after hours of grading, Medha traced her fingertips proudly across her students’ essays. A sharp tear escaped Medha’s right eye, but her neck reflex angled her chin away, resting on the soft fabric of her sari, before it could fall on the pages. The quiet evidence of her students’ precious time.

“You will be marrying a well-educated professor in the biomedical sciences, Medha. Once we arrange a meeting between you two, the pandit will analyse your astrological signs to find a suitable wedding date next month.”

The words chanted in her head repetitively, but all she could feel was the inevitable flatline of her heart. As the beep diminished like a hiss in the background of her mind, Medha stood up from her chair, weakly. Keeping her palms steady on the teacher’s desk to hold herself upright, her eyes flickered shut and she inhaled the scent of chalk dust from the lesson she taught prior. It was still visible, like specks of snowfall, in the rays of the afternoon sun that gleamed through the arched windows, void of glass. Medha wrote on the chalkboard during her lessons, passionately and frantically, with the bursting desire to educate her dear school children. Each one had a beautifully innocent heart and playful nature, and she’d be damned if life stripped them of that energy. She wanted her children to stay curious and keep learning, and eventually to soar further than she ever would be able to do.

Her eyes darted across each corner of the classroom. One black chalkboard, with worn down chalk pieces lining the tray. Two emergency oil lamps, hidden by raised wall brackets. Three broken ceiling fan blades, all somehow cut in half, but whirring slowly on their last legs. Her eyes then hyperfocused on the peeling cream paint on the wall underneath the oil lamp. ‘Has it always been like that?’ she thought, anxiously scraping her blunt nails against the bare skin of her waist, realising she was now cradling herself. Her skin also peeled, but she felt nothing.

Initially placed in a perfect pile, Medha noticed she had unintentionally scattered all of her students’ papers across her desk; some had even flown to the floor. The perfectionist in her would scold herself to clean it up immediately, but Medha’s body stilled. Stilled, in final acceptance.

It was time to face something she begged God that her students would never have to face. The time for the end of her choices

Cotton Guts

She knows how to tell the story. She’s told it so many times it lives in her bones now. She knows to smile when she steps on stage. Nod when they introduce her. Pause for dramatic effect.

Her fingers are still shaking as she makes her entrance.

There was a time she could switch it off. The jitters, the nerves, the noise. She would disappear into the ritual. Into the realm of pretty stories. She’d will her fingers to be steady, her voice to be loud, her spine to be straight. Every piece of her a perfect picture of calm. 

But lately, the switch doesn’t flip. The picture won’t hold.

Now she feels everything. The sting of her chapped lips. The tight ball of her sternum. The hangnail she bit until it bled last night.

She hears herself introduced. But the polished speaker bio sounds hollow to her. Like trying to read time in a dream. Her eyes burn. Her sinuses pulse. 

And for some reason, she remembers her baby cousin wrestling his white teddy bear on a mattress in the living room of her childhood home. The two-bedroom apartment too small for all the children sleeping over. The bear’s belly was split, its insides spilling out in little white tufts. Tufts she’d push away at night, spiky and irritating against her skin. The bear looked fine, until you leaned in. White-on-white, the damage was almost invisible.

And then she hears herself speak.

There’s a hiccup in her voice, but she recovers. She always does.

She talks about adversity and ambition. Ambition and opportunity. Opportunity and triumph.

She declares: Every day is an opportunity. To become who you were always meant to be. To let go of limitations and distortions. To be your best self. 

But her throat is tight. Her left breast burns. She can smell his breath.

She thinks of Persian rugs.

The audience laughs at the right parts. They nod when she thanks her professors. Her mentors. Her father. She doesn’t say that he calls her the light of his life. Or that she’s terrified of that light going out.

She doesn’t say that most nights, she stands in front of her bathroom mirror and pulls at her hair until the scalp throbs. That it’s the only time she feels real. That sometimes pain is the only proof that she exists at all.

She says: Every day is an opportunity.

But the truth is this:

Every day is a ritual.
A ceremony of holding it together.
Of painting pain in triumph.
Of smelling fire and pretending it’s rain.

She is pristine and cracking.

Stitched with secrets.

A teddy bear with cotton guts, smiling in a child’s arms, midair, as it’s slammed down on a mattress. And somewhere in her insides, a truth is spilling out.

She clicks join call. Her dad’s face shows up on screen. Just a little bit too close to the camera. He’s trimmed his beard. And she can see the edge of a collared shirt at the bottom of the screen. His wife’s choice, she’s sure. 

It’s Eid, so they do what they always do.

“Eid Mubarak, Dad.”
“Kul ‘am w inti bkhair, habibti. How’s work? How are things?”

She recites the usual spiel.
Work is busy. She’s tired, but managing. All good.

He’s quiet for a beat. Scanning her face.

She notices the wrinkles on his cheeks.
He lingers on the dark circles under her eyes.

Then, tentative:

“I want to know you, Bayan. I feel like I don’t. Your life. The details of it. Even your apartment. I know you say you’re okay, but I wanna know how. How are you managing over there? What are your days like?” She freezes.

Stops herself from rolling her eyes.

Her chest gets heavy with that familiar weight of having to convince him that she’s just fine.

What does he know? Why now? Why is he picking at me like this?

Her fingers twitch to scratch at her scalp. 

“I’m fine,” she reassures. Her tone is off. Too flat. “You don’t have to worry.”

“But I am worried,” he raises his voice. Just a little bit. But her shoulders still tense, bracing. “I can see you’re not ok, Bayan. Just talk to me. Let me be with you. Why are you so stubborn about doing this alone?”

Her response is frayed.

“Because I’ve always done it alone.”

That comes out harsher than intended.

“Like, no offense, Dad, but you weren’t there. You didn’t see anything. I was there. I was in it. And you – I know. I know you were working. You had to leave. You had to make your sacrifices. I get it. But I was alone. And it wasn’t – you know how it was Dad! What I had to deal with. So yeah, I’m doing this alone because I am alone. I’ve always been.”

He blinks a few times. His hand reaches up to pull on his earlobe. 

“But – you always said you were okay. You always sounded so happy. All those adventures your mom took you on? The straight As. Your scholarship.”

Are you really that stupid?I know I wasn’t that good of a liar growing up.

She doesn’t say that.

Instead, she looks down, hugs herself. Then, exhausted:

“Come on, Dad. I was a kid. I said what I had to say. I was just a kid.”

And that second time. It rips something wide open. Tears flood her eyes. No holding it back now. She stares up at him. A choice. Silence. 

He panics. Only for a second. His lips part, he takes a breath, about to explain and defend. 

But then… A choice. Silence. 

A distant look crosses his face. Like he’s remembering.

Then he stares back at her. His jaw twitches.  But he stays still.

There are tears in his eyes. 

“Baba–” 

One word. Everything. The gentlest he’s ever sounded.

She’s five again. And he’s taken the day off from work just because she needed help building her first snowman. 

“Baba, I’m sorry habibti.”

She’s six and shivering from a nightmare. He mutes Al Jazeera News and gets up from the couch. Hugs her. Cold fingertips, warm chest. His fanella fisted in her hand. Safe. Held.

“I love you ya Baba.”  

She ruptures. Cries out. Her pain audible for once. Messy. 

The kind of suffering that can’t be tied up with a pretty bow. 

She sniffles. Gasps. Hiccups. 

A child again. 

Wipes at the snot with her sleeve. She hasn’t refilled the tissue box in months. 

Soft eyes look back at her. 

“No, Baba. I don’t wanna see you crying like this.”

But he doesn’t turn away. He stays right there on the screen, taking in her pain. A steady presence. Looking back at the light of his life. 

And she knows now. That he will always see her. He will always hold her.

Even if it hurts him.
Even if he doesn’t know what to say.
Even if all he can do is witness.

She is a child again. With her Baba by her side.

She wakes up like she’s been pulled out from under water. Gasping. Thrust back into consciousness. 

She’d barely slept. An hour or two? The kind of sleep that feels like work. She was solving math problems in her dreams. 

From her bed, she takes inventory of the room. No damage. Just the blue-grey early morning light seeping through half-drawn curtains. And the walls, too white. No posters allowed. She hears the pigeons cooing by her window sill. Like every morning. Everything else, though– 

Quiet.

The silence after an explosion. A held breath.

Her shoulder muscles ache. 

She’d tried to hold him back last night. Had yanked at his collar, his sleeves. Pleaded with him as he raged through the hallway. 

Probably messed something up in her shoulder from pulling too hard. 

The smell is still there.
Alcohol, broken down. Vomited back up.

Sweet. Acidic. Sugar as assault.
It sticks to the air. Is it on her? She sniffs her curls. Swallows hard. 

She tucks herself back under her bedsheets, like a coffin. The air inside is warm and contained. Takes a deep breath. 

The thoughts whoosh in:

Get up. 

Shower. Eat breakfast. Pack lunch. Don’t forget the math test. And the English homework. You can do that during break. Mom’s probably not gonna make it to work today. Text her boss before you leave. 

Quieter: I don’t wanna lie again. I can’t trust her anymore. He scares me. 

Get up. 

Now!

She yanks her bedsheets off, jumps up, and out of the room.

The wall is cracked. Right next to her mom’s bedroom door.
She hadn’t seen that last night.

A jagged line almost to the ceiling.

She traces it with her eyes. Where does it end? Does something eventually collapse? 

It fades out. 

She shivers.

That smell. 

She’d tried to clean last night. Dettol. Lemon chemical. Scrubbed everywhere. Still the acid.
Still the sugar. Still the bile.

She breathes through her mouth. Pushes her way to the bathroom. 

Her reflection in the mirror is distorted. She avoids her own eyes. Picks at her scalp instead. 

In the shower, she stares at the floral pattern of the wall tiles. Scrubs efficiently at her body.

Don’t look down.

Don’t check for bruises.
You don’t want to know. 

There are books all over the hallway floor.
The copy of Black Beauty her dad got her for her 10th birthday. Face-down. Spine broken.

She picks it up and tries to smooth over the pages. 

The mark remains, of course.

She tucks it under her arm. Takes it to her room. To the very back of the closet next to her diary. Returns for the rest of the books.

Forty Rules of Love.The Alchemist. 

Nizar Qabbani.

She runs her finger over the gold-etched title.

Her stepdad loved Nizar’s poetry. Cherished it, usually.

Last night, though, nothing mattered.

Another explosion. And Nizar was collateral damage.
Just like her.

She rearranges the books by size. Makes sure nothing is out of place. Makes it pretty.

Then she moves.

Knocks softly at her mother’s door and tiptoes in. 

Almost trips on the Persian rug as her eyes adjust to the thick darkness. 

“Mama,” she whispers. “Habibti. Time for work.”

A groan. 

She pulls out her phone and types: 

Hello, this is Hala’s daughter, Bayan. My mother is sick today and won’t be able to make it to the office. She asked me to write this message and let you know.

She leans down to kiss the frown line etched on her mom’s forehead.

Sweaty. Clammy. Hair matted to the side of her face.
“I love you, Mama.”

The school bus is already pulling up when she steps outside.

She climbs in. Stands up straight. Breathes out. 

It’s old and the seats are peeling, and it smells like Cheetos and Axe body spray.
The boys are screaming, pushing, smacking at each other. Puberty-cracked voices arguing about last night’s WWE Smackdown.

Abdulrahman yells that he can do a real suplex better than Brock Lesnar, and Saif dares him to try, and someone’s backpack is being used as a frisbee, and the third graders are already shrieking, and it’s 6:17 a.m.

“Can I get to my seat please?”

She barks out a laugh as she shoves Abdulrahman out of the way. 

Plays her part. She’s strong. She’s fine. She’s fun.

One of the boys.

And in the corner of the back row — Khalid.
His hoodie is pulled up, but those green eyes are clear. Bright. Oh my god, how is it possible for someone to have such pretty eyes? Her heart flutters. Her cheeks burn. She can’t help but grin.

He sees her. Smiles back. Hands her one of his earbuds.
Their daily ritual. 

She pulls out her math notebook. Flips to her neatly scribbled exam notes. 

He takes out his lunchbox and offers her a baby carrot.

Pack lunch. Crap, I forgot.

The kids are still shouting. To her left, Anwar is beatboxing, and Maryam is arguing with the bus driver to turn on the radio.

But in her right ear, she hears Linkin Park.  Against my will, I stand beside my own reflection. It’s haunting. How I can’t seem to find myself again.

Her eyes flicker down to Khalid’s hands as he fidgets with his iPod, lingering for a second on his bitten-down nails, before snapping back to her notes.

is he tired of lying, too?

Her handwriting in front of her gets blurry for a second. She blinks, scratches at her neck, clears her throat. 

Then solves another math problem.

Reflection:

This collection is not just about the myth of resilience. It’s about who carries it. Through Bayan, we see how girls are expected to hold the weight. To stay composed. To be helpful. To clean up after violence, show up to school, and keep going. The boys and men around her take up space in other ways. Some disappear. Some explode. Some joke and wrestle and shout. She holds it all in.

Even her strength is a performance. Pain tucked into good grades and neat routines. Her breakdowns happen quietly, away from view. Like the teddy bear in her memory, the damage is easy to miss unless you look closely.

This is about how resilience becomes a mask. About how girls are taught to be fine. To be light. To be okay. And what begins to change when someone finally sees through it. When she is allowed to be tired. To break. And still be loved

Where gold flows like poison

Don Felipe is the best cocoa producer there is in Aguas Claras, a title earned after dedicating his whole life to grow not only the most beautiful cocoa plots in the village, but also for his ability to turn his land into a haven, which with the passing of time is becoming more and more needed in Aguas Claras. However, some people in the village, especially the younger ones, seem to forget how valuable this small oasis is.

“Ay, mis wawas, mi orgullo”. Don Felipe would say, his calloused hands gently brushing the leaves of his cocoa plants. “You don’t need gold or mercury to shine. You’re worth more than that, you give life, no diseases. But they don’t get it, do they? Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe no matter what the cooperatives say”.

After working in the fields, there wasn’t much to do in Aguas Claras, so Don Felipe often spent his afternoons at Pedro’s Golden Cantina, the only bar in the village. The cantina was a small room where the heat seemed to gather and linger, made worse by the fan that had stopped working five years earlier. Besides the bar made of unpainted cement, the cantina had three white plastic tables, one of which had a leg held together with duct tape. The routine was always the same: Don Felipe would arrive to find Pedro ready to play cards. After a while, the bar would start to fill up and the music from the jukebox would begin to play. With the music came toasts, dancing and the not that occasional drunken brawl.

One evening, while drinking his fifth glass of the night, a voice nearby called his name. Don Felipe turned and saw a younger man sliding into the chair next to him. “Don Felipe, it’s been a while!” It was the youngest son of his compadre Félix, the one who had moved to the city some years back. Just as Don Felipe stood to hug him, he noticed the cap the young man was wearing, embroidered with the words Aguas Claras Mining Cooperative. “I heard you’re still a legend and that no one has been able to grow cocoa like you in all these years.”

Don Felipe’s smile faltered as his eyes lingered on the cap. He sat back down, his enthusiasm dampened. “So, you’ve joined the cooperatives now. I didn’t think your father would raise his kids to chase quick money without thinking about the community.”

The young man frowned at Don Felipe’s words. “What else am I supposed to do? There are no other jobs here and in the city things aren’t much better. My wife is pregnant and I need to provide for my family. Should I just pray that there are no droughts this year and wait for the crops to grow while my family goes hungry?”

“Real men take care of their land and feed their family with their own hands. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it should always be. Gold won’t teach your children respect for the earth or the value of hard work, but the land will.”

The young man stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “The world is changing, Don Felipe. You can’t stop progress.”

Before he could say anything else, a voice called out from the bar. “Don Felipe! This one’s on the house! Let’s toast to one of the best men in Aguas Claras.” Don Felipe turned toward the bar. As he raised his glass, his thoughts drifted back to a time when life in Aguas Claras was simpler, when the village’s name still made sense.

When Don Felipe was a child, there was no contradiction between the village’s name and the river that flowed through it. Aguas Claras, clear water, that’s what Felipe used to see every morning when he ran down the hill, jumped into the river and caught fish for his mother to cook. This was his favourite part of the day, not only because he wasn’t very fond of school, but also because he felt he was obeying his father’s command to take care of the house whenever he went to work on the cocoa plots. The river was alive then, its waters sparkling under the sun, its banks teeming with life.

Now, if you go to Aguas Claras, the river has a strange turquoise tone, a sickly hue that discloses the mercury used to extract gold upstream. When Don Felipe’s children were born, he forbade his wife from letting them swim in the river. He couldn’t bear the thought of them touching water that had turned toxic, water that had once been his refuge and playground. After the river’s colour changed, rumours began to spread, swimming in it or eating its fish would make children stupid, people said. Don Felipe didn’t know if the rumours were true, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk.

The blurred memory of this river once filled with life, was what made Don Felipe so decisive to make his cocoa plot the best in Aguas Claras. He knew he had no control over what the mining companies did to the river, so he had to focus on what he could control: his land. Just as his father did, he knew he had to leave something to his children and this was his driving force to keep going despite the droughts and floods that were becoming more and more frequent. It was very simple for him: if you know how to farm, you will never starve even if you’re poor. That’s what he used to tell his children every time they worked with him. But he could see the doubt in their eyes and he couldn’t blame them. The promise of quick money by joining a mining cooperative had even appealed him at some point.   

Despite all his admirable qualities, Don Felipe was, after all, only human, flawed and far from perfect. For much of his life, it was not uncommon for him to wake up with a pounding headache, the price of a long night of chicha and cumbia spent at Pedro’s Golden Cantina. Too often he seemed to forget that his actions carried consequences beyond him. On those mornings, as he nursed his chaki, his wife, bore the pain of fresh bruises.

After one of those nights, Don Felipe walked into the kitchen, his head throbbing from the night before. His wife Lucila stood by the sink, her sleeves pulled down to her wrists despite the heat. The table was empty. “Where’s breakfast?” he asked.

“I didn’t make any. I was busy trying to cover up. So people wouldn’t see what kind of man I married.” Her face was carefully made up, but there was a tiny hint of a bruise that peeked out from under the powder on her left eye. As she spoke, her hands kept scrubbing the same cup over and over. The porcelain clinked against the sink. She didn't look at him.

He stood in the kitchen, the clinking of the cup against the sink echoing in his ears. He wanted to justify himself, but no words came out. Instead, he turned to the stove and began to do something he hadn’t done in years: breakfast. He fried eggs, warmed some bread and made coffee for two. Then he set the table. Lucila watched him, but her face was as still as the surface of a frozen lake. When he finally gestured for her to sit, she hesitated but after a moment she joined him at the table. They ate in silence. The eggs grew cold between bites, the coffee darker and bitter. When they finished, Lucila rose without a word and cleared only her plate.

Don Felipe couldn’t bear that awkward silence that settled in the house, so he walked out toward his plots, the only place that could bring him some peace in moments like this. As he reached the fields, he noticed that the leaves of his cocoa plants were coated in a thin layer of dust, their vibrant green dulled under a gray film. He ran his fingers over the leaves, trying to wipe it away, but the dust clung stubbornly. It was the mark of the dredges upstream, tearing through the land and leaving their poison in the air. The mining cooperatives were getting closer and their shadow was already creeping into his haven.

Over the next few days, the signs of destruction became impossible to ignore. The river, already tainted with its sickly turquoise hue, seemed to grow darker. The birds no longer sang in the trees, the once-familiar sounds of the land were replaced by the distant rumble of machinery, growing louder each day. Staring at the river’s poisoned water, Don Felipe shook his head with a bitter taste in his mouth: mercury. They were using mercury and no one seemed to care. Not the cooperatives, not the villagers, and the authorities were absent as always. The poison was everywhere, in the water, in the soil, in the air they breathed, in the dust on his plants, in the silence of the birds. And yet, at Pedro’s Golden Cantina and in the square of the village, life went on, as if nothing had changed.

One morning, Don Felipe stood at the edge of his fields, the cocoa plants swaying gently in the breeze. The machines were tearing through the neighbouring plots, their engines roaring as they ripped the earth apart. The green land was shrinking, day by day and soon it would be his turn. As the sun dipped below the hills, Don Felipe returned home to find Lucila sitting on a chair outside their home, her hands resting in her lap. The children were inside, their voices fainted through the open window. He hesitated, then he sat beside her.

“The dredges are getting closer,” he said. “They’ll be at our land soon and you know they don’t care about the previous consultation.”

Lucila nodded, her face calm but her eyes tired. “I know.”

The previous consultation, enshrined in Bolivia’s constitution, was supposed to protect communities like theirs. It required anyone to consult indigenous and local people before approving projects that would affect their land through the extraction of natural resources. But everyone knew that it was just words on paper. The mining cooperatives moved forward without asking, without listening, as if the people who had lived on this land for generations were invisible. And the government just turned a blind eye as long as the gold kept flowing and the cooperatives lined the right pockets.

They sat in silence for a moment listening to the distant rumble of the dredges. “You’ve always taken such good care of the land, Felipe. But the land doesn’t need you the way we do.” Lucila had a soft and steady voice

He looked at her and finally saw the years of quiet suffering in her face, the bruises she hid, the meals she cooked alone, the nights she spent waiting for him to come home. How had she managed to make ends meet if he sometimes spent a week’s income in a single night at the cantina? He had always poured his love into the soil, but what had he given to his family?

“I…” he began, but what could he say? That he was sorry? That he would change? He didn’t know if he could; they both knew it.

Lucila reached over and placed a hand on his. “You’re a good man, Felipe. But you’re not just a farmer. You’re also a husband and a father.”

“Maybe we should try our luck in the city,” he said quietly. “I have a cousin there, he’s a minibus driver. Maybe he can help me join his union.”

Lucila looked at him, her face unreadable. Then, softly, she replied, “MaybDescription text goes here

TRIGGER WARNING: Descriptions of gender based violence

Mary, a mother of three, wakes up in a hospital bed after surviving a brutal attack from her husband, Judah. Her body is covered in scars, her throat aches from being strangled, and her daughter sits beside her, eyes filled with fear and relief. As Mary tries to make sense of her surroundings, fragments of her past surface—memories of a marriage built on charm and promises, now reduced to a nightmare of daily violence. She is not just healing from physical wounds but from years of emotional and psychological torment.

She is forced to confront why she stayed with Judah for so long. Fear of the unknown kept her trapped—she had no financial independence, no place to go, and society constantly reminded her that a "good wife endures." The church elders told her to pray harder. The police dismissed her cries for help. She told herself she was staying for her children, but deep down, she feared the shame of admitting she had made a mistake, of facing a world that might not support her. Even worse, she recognized Judah in her father—the same cycle of violence she swore she’d never repeat.

When she learns that her neighbour was the one who saved her, Mary feels a mixture of gratitude and humiliation. The neighbour had warned her for years, urging her to leave, but she never could. Now, with Judah in police custody for attempted murder, Mary faces a terrifying new reality: What comes next?

But this time, something is different. Instead of fear, there is anger. Not just at Judah, but at the world that enabled him. At the system that dismissed her suffering. At herself, for believing love meant enduring pain. She looks at her children—traumatized but alive—and makes a decision. This cycle ends with me.

After being discharged, Mary seeks therapy, not just for herself but for her children. She partners with organizations that support survivors of domestic violence, determined to help women who, like her, once believed they had no way out. She shares her story publicly, shattering the silence that nearly killed her. Meanwhile, Judah remains behind bars, but the scars he left are not easily erased. Healing is slow, painful, and full of setbacks—but Mary refuses to be silent any longer.

Months later, Mary stands before a packed community hall, speaking at an event for survivors. She grips the microphone, steady and sure, her voice no longer trembling. "For years, I stayed because I thought I had no choice. But I do. We all do." In the front row, a young woman watches with wide, fearful eyes—the same eyes Mary once had. After the event, she hesitantly approaches. "I don’t know if I can leave," she whispers. Mary takes her hands, firm yet gentle. "You don’t have to do it alone." With every woman she helps, Mary’s life is filled with purpose. The cycle of silence is broken. And for the first time in her life, she is truly freeDescription text goes here

Luo translation

Mary, min nyithindo adek, ochiew e otanda mar osiptal bang' tony kuom gocho marach mane otimne gi chwore, Judah. Dende opong’ gi mbelni, duonde remo kaluwore gi kaka nodeye, kendo nyare obet e bathe, to wang’e opong’ gi luoro kod kuwe. Ka Mary temo paro gik ma timore aluora mare, ochako paro gik mane otimorene chon—paro mag keny ma ne oger e wi ng’iyo kod sing’o, ma sani osebedo mana lek marach mar goch ma pile ka pile. Ok ni ochango mana kuom rem mag del kende; to bende ochango kuom higni mang’eny mag chand marach e chunye kod pache.

Ochuno ni openjre gimomiyo nodak gi Juda kuom kinde malach kamano. Luoro mar gik ma ok ong’ere ne otweye -nene oonge pesa moluongo ni mare, ne onge kama ne onyalo dhie, kendo oganda ne parone kinde ka kinde ni "dhako maber bedo jachuny." Jodongo mag kanisa nowachone ni olam matek moloyo. Jopolisi ne ok okawo matek ywak mare mar dwaro kony. Ne onyisore owuon ni obet nikech nyithinde, to ei chunye, ne oluoro wich kuot mar yie ni notimo richo, mar romo gi piny ma nyalo bedo ni ok bi konye. Marach moloyo, ne oneno wuon mare ei Juda- ma ne nigi timbe mag anjao ma ne osingore ni ok obi nwoyo.

Kane owinjo ni jirande ema ne orese, Mary nowinjo ka en gi erokamano kod wich kuot moriwore. Jirandeno ne osebedo ka nyise kuom higni mang’eny, ka ojiwe mondo owuogi, to ne ok onyal. Sani, ka Juda ni e jela mar polisi nikech notemo nego ng’ato, Mary yudo ka en gi wach manyien ma miye luoro: Ang’o mabiro bang’e?

Kata kamano, e kindeni, nitie gimoro mopogore. Kar bedo gi luoro, nitie mirima. Ok mana e wi Juda kende, to bende e piny ma ne omiye nyalo. Kuom oganda ma ne ok okawo chandruok mare ka gimoro malich. Kuom en owuon, nikech noparo ni hera ne tiende dak gi lit mosiko. Ong’iyo nyithinde—ma owinjo marach to pod gin mangima—kaeto okawo okang’. Timbegi nyaka rum koda.

Kane osewouk e osiptal, Mary nomanyo thieth mar obuongo, ok mana ne en owuon, to bende ne nyithinde. Otiyo kanyakla gi riwruoge ma konyo jogo ma osekalo e goch manie mier, kendo ochung’ motegno mar konyo mon ma, kaka en, chon ne paro ni onge konyruok ka giwuok. Onyiso ji wachne e lela, kendo oketho ling ma ne chiegni nege. Kata kamano, Juda pod odong’ e od twech, mak mana ni mbelni ma ne oweyo ok nyal ruchi mayot. Chang biro mos, gi lit, kendo opong’ gi gik ma duoko ng’ato chien—kata kamano Mary otamore ling’ kendo.

Bang’ dweche moko, Mary ochung’ e nyim galamoro ei od romo, ka owuoyo e nyasi moro ma ne itimo ne jogo ma ne osekalo e goch mege udi to odong’ mangima. Omako maikrofon, kochung’ motegno kendo gi adiera, duonde okwe kendo ok tetni. “Kuom higni mang’eny, ne abedo nikech ne aparo ni onge gima anyalo timo. Kata kamano, an gi geno. Wan duto wan gi geno.” E laini ma nyime, nyako moro ma rawera neno gi wang’e madongo kendo ma nigi luoro—wenge ma Maria ne nigo chon. Bang’ romono, odhi machiegni kode ka en gi luoro. Okuodhone niya: “Ok ang’eyo ka anyalo wuok.” Mary nomako lwete, motegno to gi muolo. “Ok onego itim kamano kendi.” Kuom mine moro amora ma Mary okonyo, ngima mar Mary bedo ka opong’ gi teko mar konyo. Timbe mege ling’ kisandori osekethore. Kendo en okang’ mokwongo kuom ngimane, owinjo ka en gi thuolo mar adier