By Adila Majeed
It was lunch break at my school, just a short five-minute walk from my home. As a child, lunch breaks were the most exciting part of the day, not for the meal itself, but for the time spent with my mother, who would bring my lunch. She would walk the short distance, carrying a warm meal and a glass of lassi. I still remember how the creamy liquid sometimes would leave a frothy white trail on my upper lip, like foam on sunlit waters, and my mother would gently wipe it away with her soft hands.
Today, as I juggle the endless tasks of adult life—cooking, cleaning, managing work, and university—I find a question echoing quietly within me: Would any of this have been possible without my mother’s undeterred dedication? She has been the worrier, the embodiment of timeless wisdom, grace, and courage, and with her unnoticed labour, she seamlessly wove a foundation on which I now stand.
When I reflect on my life, my thoughts always return to my mother—a woman with no formal degree, yet a true nonconformist and idealist in her own right. From the earliest memories I hold, I recall how she dared to dream big for us, long before we even understood the scope of those dreams. She has always been self-assured and grateful to Almighty for raising three daughters. She consistently defied socially constructed identities, especially in Kashmir- a conservative, patriarchal, and closed society.
In an institutionalized patriarchy, it is extremely challenging to raise three daughters, especially when society constantly tries to make you feel vulnerable. But my mother had a vision and grand ambitions for us. Our mother never raised us to cook and clean, but to build careers, to be independent, and to be empowered enough that we would never have to be financially dependent on others. She understood the harsh realities of the world- how being unable to pursue higher studies crippled her own opportunities and how she was often reduced to the role of a homemaker.
Being a homemaker often means that your time is never truly your own, as you are constantly at the beck and call of others, including your children. It commonly involves sacrificing personal dreams and desires. We not only fail to appreciate women for their domestic work, but this lack of recognition contributes to the difference in status between men and women. While men gain higher status through their public lives, women’s domestic roles often keep them in a position of perceived inferiority. She knew the true value of financial independence, which brings not just security but the freedom to make choices and maintain full agency over one’s life.
As a homemaker, she did more than maintain our household. With her perseverance and unwavering spirit, she laid the foundation of our home, built our character, shaped our personalities, and stood firmly behind us as we pursued our goals. My father worked in Srinagar, 60 km from our home, and could only visit on Saturdays, leaving my mother to manage everything. My father stayed away from us, working tirelessly to ensure we received the finest education from the best educational institutions. Even before dawn, while we were still asleep, she would wake up and walk to the local kandur (baker) to bring us fresh, crispy Kashmiri lawasa—a task traditionally done by men in our society.
I refuse to call her ‘the man of the house’—a phrase that diminishes her efforts and reinforces the socially constructed belief that a man is the sole guardian. To associate her strength with manhood would be dismissive, as men are traditionally seen only as providers, not the ones who nurture or build homes. Instead, I see her as a woman like Hazrat Khadija (RA), the wife of Prophet Muhammad (SAW)—courageous, wise, and gracious.
Growing up in Kashmir was grievous and perilous. During the 1990s, when the conflict was at its peak, CASOs (Cordon and Search Operations) and crackdowns occurred almost daily. The army patrolled entire villages and towns. Adjacent to our home was a narrow lane and when the army passed by, we could easily feel their presence by the heavy stomp of their military boots that filled us with fear. The soldiers would sit and rest on our verandah all night. It was dreadful and unsafe for the four of us to live without a man in our large home.
My mother would stay awake throughout the night, ensuring our safety so we could sleep peacefully, even as danger loomed outside our door. Before we woke up, she would carefully clean the verandah, removing any traces of cigarettes or other things left behind by the army.
My mother would carry the small, tattered diary she kept tucked away. She would write in it about our dreams and even engraved our walls with her cramped handwriting where she would write about our ambitions. Every entry was a prayer to Allah, asking Him to make our dreams come true. She always makes these special prayers for us- Allah tallah dinew izzat, thaoud ahdi, aslukh hidyat, be imaan (May Allah bless you with honour and higher positions good guidance, and Imaan).
She taught us that education, independence, and emancipation were the keys to a meaningful life more important than anything else. Some of our relatives used to mock her, questioning her unconventional choices. “Why don’t your daughters do household chores?” But my mother would respond defiantly, “They will learn when the time comes, but it’s not important right now.”.
I remember one instance vividly. Someone told her about a girl who got married but didn’t even know how to cook rice. As a curious little child, I turned to my mother and asked, “Mumma, I know how to cook rice, right?” She laughed gently, and I could see from her eyes and words there was reassurance when she said, “It doesn’t matter if you can cook rice or not. You’ll learn all of this when the time is right. For now, your only focus should be on your studies”.
During the rainy season, our lanes would become muddy but my mother would carry our school shoes in her hands to ensure we entered school clean and dignified. Those small yet colossal acts carried endless sacrifices and selfless love for us. Every step we took toward our education and independence was built on the quiet foundation of her labor and dreams. My elder sisters and I have all built successful careers. One of my elder sisters works as a programmer while the other works as a software engineer.
She wasn’t just a mother, she was a visionary, a true feminist in every sense of the word. She doesn’t have any idea of being a feminist but she lived it. Her sacrifices, her belief in us, and her quiet defiance of societal norms shaped us into who we are today.
Here is a poem dedicated to my Mumma, Parveena Akhter
I pause and reflect, I sit in stillness,
Walking through the echoes of what shaped us.
Was it our struggle, our toil, our name?
Or her silent strength behind the flame?
We three came from her belly by God’s will,
Three daughters she gave life to, with grace and courage, though often uncelebrated.
She waged a war against the intruders of womanhood
Crushing the brittle chains of crafted gender roles
Her labor sculpted us into who we became,
Her pearled wing, woven into our lives,
Always there, always singing the songs of our dreams.
Streets drenched in mud,
She carried our school shoes so we could enter the world with dignity,
untouched by the grime of the earth.
She’d whisper in Kashmiri, Wondmayha zoo panun (May my life be sacrificed for you),
And today, with trembling lips and a heart heavy with gratitude,
I whisper back to her,Wondmayha zoo panun
May I be hers, as she has always been mine.
May I carry even a fraction of her strength,
Her love,Her light.
I sit here, still and small,
feeling the enormity of all she has given, all she has been.
And in this stillness,
I finally understand—her love was never silent.
It was in every step she took,
every sacrifice she made,
every whisper of hope she breathed into us.
It was in the way she carried the world on her shoulders,
so, we could stand tall
Wondmayha zoo panun I whisper again,
my voice breaking,
my heart overflowing.
May I honour her,
May I become even a shadow of the woman she is.
For she is my beginning,
my constant, My forever.
Dr Adila Majeed,
Assistant Professor in Political Science
North South University, Dhaka
