I was seeing him for extreme violent out of control fighting with his brother and at school. I noticed he was small for a seven year old
“Where did you learn to fight?” I asked
“From my Dad” he hesitated, and then said “………..when he beat my Mom” his white face expressionless, his eyes averted, his voice flat.
Years of learning to school my face when I hear such things perhaps still is not tight enough and some horror of what I felt must have flickered on my face. He rushed into saying “……….and from my Mom she also fought my Dad”
His seven-year-old eyes shied away from mine. knowledge of what he should never have witnessed as a two, five or six year old pooled in his eyes like a pond of dark dank filth. He looked away. His small body much too small for his year’s stiff with remembrance and then he shook himself and said “She also hit him”
“Do you want to go back and live with her?” I asked changing the subject.
“Yes!” he said. The joy of the thought creeping into every crevice of his pale face and lightening it with color, putting pink in his cheeks, his cowlick gelled , his hair glossy and neat, he looked at me in anticipation.
“………and you will one day when things are better with you” I said having no knowledge of how deep the quagmire of violence was.
After he left the room to go to get a gift from our treasure box the social worker said “he is never going back to live with her……..”
Later in talking to the social worker and reading the note of an earlier one I thought to myself…………..May the Lord have mercy on all of us and the American Ummah and its children.
The story unfolds with all its hideousness: His mother as a young girl is sexually molested at age 7 by her father till she is sixteen, when she finally runs away and marries a vagabond ………and things happen plus a kid arrives and then she divorces and she marries a drug addict and peddler and two more kids arrive, violence happens and he is in jail for life. She is in the dungeon of depression…………..her children are growing up in foster homes yearning for her and she, unable to shake the violence of her childhood is unable to save herself from the terror of memories leave alone mother them.
I wonder what punishment needs to be meted out to fathers who violate their own daughters. No uncles, brothers or male family members to come to the rescue? The breakdown of the family system and regression into the animalistic dark ages which Islam had abolished 1400 years ago was alive and rampant here.
Children have to be watched every moment, they are Allah’s amanah to us, and we cannot use or misuse them not for personal abuse or for personal aggrandizement.
I was reminded of my mother how she kept a constantly vigilant eye on me at all times which sometimes irritated me.
I am now deeply thankful that my mother was a sergeant major when it can to chaperonage. She would not leave me alone for one tenth of a moment with men of the family, or boys in the house or with servants or with male cousins or my brother’s friends to the point that it irked me.
Today I cannot thank her enough as I see a parade of beautiful normal intelligent children mauled by violence both physical and sexual, scarred for life yearning always yearning for the love and security of their parents who are unable to provide it………..as they never had it. A vicious never ending cycle of pain, anguish and deprivation.
May Allah Subhanawataala protect the children from predators and provide over them protectors and providers who keep them as amanah of Allah.
Disclaimer: Names, circumstances and events have been changed to protect confidentiality of the subjects.