grandma – Fountain Magazine

Mother of Orphans

The Fountain — Sun, 01 Mar 2020 16:54:14 +0000

– Hello grandma, how is everything?

– Oh, my dear Seyma, is that you? Since you are calling all the way from America I will not waste much. I am doing well, take good care of yourself and never forget to put aside your charity before Friday prayer every week.

– Sure, grandma, is there anything you ask of me?

– Tell me, if I were to come to collect donations for the orphans in my town, would President Clinton give me any?

– My dearest grandma, you ask this all the time; I am in America, but I really do not meet with President Clinton at all. I am an ordinary college student and he does not roam around the streets.

I then wondered and chuckled, “the audacity to ask the President of the States when you live far away in a rural part of Anatolia!”

***

All of our cousins, aunts, and uncles would gather in her large but simple 4-bedroom home every Eid. Sugar-loaded grandkids would look for trouble and would find money at every corner of the giant hand-woven rug, to which she anxiously warned: “This sac of money belongs to the fridge project for Ms. Aisha; the right corner belongs to the school supplies for Ms. Khadija’s daughters; and the red sack has the money for Ms. Fatima’s house project. Do not even touch, my dears, as these are sacred.”

She built dozens of houses with the funds that she collected bit by bit, day by day, cent by cent and would store it under the rug. She would never let a family go without fulfilling all of their needs and finding a sustainable source of income. A couple days a week, she would take the needy families down to the marketplace to visit businessmen and ask for help. Some of them knew of her sincere intentions while others complained when she arrived. However, she certainly did not care what others would think of her. She would be helping a family or two and they would sit around the table with all of us every Eid dinner. My uncles and aunts were the “elites” of the town, and so this notion was not something we were used to in our normal lives. I then grunted for her absurdness for squeezing us all with strangers.

***

She used to sit down on her old velvet couch with her green thousand-count prayer beads in her hands as she looked out the window and lamented why the municipality would turn on the light at 5:30 pm when it gets dark only slightly later. If she saw an unnecessarily lit area, no matter how tired she was and what time of the day it was, she would hastily run to turn them off despite her old age and swollen legs.

The most striking part of the story used to come when she turned the lights off when my grandfather was in the bathroom. It was typical in most houses to have light switches outside of the room. When he screamed for her to turn the light back on, she, with a great sense of humor and seriousness, shouted back “Get done and come out quickly, there is nothing to see there anyhow!”

The most memorable quote from her was the Qur’anic verse, “…eat and drink, but waste not by excess, for God does not love wasters” (7:31).

I thought she was exaggerating this a bit much.

***

– Granny, I have exams this week. Can you please pray for me?

– Oh, my sweetie, may God help all those in need including you. I will pray for everyone, God willing.

– No grandma, that is NOT what I want. I want you to pray for ME!

With a smile, she would embrace and kiss me on the head.

I was then heart-broken thinking that I wasn’t special to her.

***

Her first name was Ihsaniye, which means “the bestowed.” She met with her Beloved God on a Feb 14^th after a long battle with a heinous cancer. The whole town cried – and, I thought I even heard the sky cry – with chants of her nickname, “the Mother of Orphans.”

Now, I have your hand-woven blue-beige medallion-style wool rug, which was the container of your little sacks, maroon-ruby wedding ring, and your green thousand-count prayer beads in my hands to cherish your beautiful heart and soul, the giant heart to fit all of humanity, the soul that cared for the earth…

As I sip my dark and warm coffee in this light and spacious hall, in one of the country’s most sustainable buildings, Kroon Hall in New Haven, listening to professors, NGOs, and private sectors presenting their vision, solutions, and efforts on Climate Change, Sustainability, and Economic Empowerment, I sigh deeply, and remember the Mother of Orphans, my dearest grandmother.

Grandma

Louima Cunningham — Sun, 01 Jan 2017 00:00:00 +0000

The sun is shining down on us. We are walking down the road that encircles the small island. Men and women, young and old; the faces are solemn, earnest, and their steps neither fast nor slow.
She is taking her last tour of the island. We are all following her. She loves this place. Who wouldn’t? As we turn the corner, we feel the breeze on our faces. A few yards to my right the waves are crashing on the small, pebbled beach, forming white swirls of foam that dance back and forth. The lake is blue-green, beautiful, with specks of light caressing the surface. There are about two hundred people living on this island. During the summer, the number increases dramatically. Like now. With a few exceptions, all the locals are here, though.
After passing beautiful stone and timber houses, we move past the historical Agios Stephanos Church and its arched windows. God knows how many last tours it has witnessed. We are almost there. We all meander to the left, and after walking a few more yards, smell the freshly dug soil. With one hand, I am holding my daughter’s hand; with the other, I brush the tears on my face.
My grandmother is up front. Not walking this time though, but on the shoulders of men, in a wooden box. She died in Istanbul, two days ago. It was her will to be brought here. She even had her own grave built, and her name carved on the stone a few years ago. She was born, raised, got married, and had three kids on this small island. Even if she later went to Istanbul, I guess her heart always remained here.
We turn right for the graveyard and gather in the open space reserved for funerals. After she is placed on the pedestal, people start lining up. In less than thirty minutes, she will be in her final resting place, her last home she picked herself. Don’t think that she was all done and ready to go: I have rarely seen people as full of life as she was. In fact, she had so many plans and dreams, even at 85 years old.
~
After the funeral, we head back to her house, to continue with the prayers and to serve food. We do not walk along the lake, but take the small paths through the interior of the island. I try to look away from the gravestones. I don’t want to read the names. When I was a child, it was said that you should not read too much of what is on gravestones or billboards; doing so would make you forgetful. I guess the logic behind this was that a lot of little details would clutter up your mind, slowing it down.
The footsteps on the small pebbles make a hushed sound, as if they are telling me, “Shhh, everything is going to be okay.” They remind me of the summers when I came here with her. When we walked on these roads to visit her friends or on the way to a house of someone in need.
My grandmother had a colorful life. She had three sons, two daughters, and thirteen grandchildren. She had been poor, she had been rich. Her house was very crowded with kids, in-laws, and company, but she also had times later in her life that she would just be by herself. She worked hard, experienced difficult times, but always managed to enjoy herself. I grew up with real stories from her life, stories you can’t find in the best story books. On the way back to her house, and the whole upcoming month, I would wonder, among many other things, about one thing she never endured: forgetfulness.
Five days ago we were in her hospital room. Doctors were asking her about her past, checking if her memory was still intact.
“When did you do the hajj?”
My mom and dad looked at each other. They couldn’t remember, but she could, providing not just the date, but the details.
After they left, I took out my camera and asked her more questions. The details she could remember, from both the recent and distant past, were amazing. She always knew when her appointments were, when it was time for her to host her monthly meeting with her friends, or where they were meeting when she was not hosting. She never put these dates on an agenda; never even had one, in fact. She cooked and baked wonderfully, but never had a recipe book, to remind her the exact amount of milk or baking powder she needed to use. How could she not be forgetful, even at 85? And why do people from my generation forget so much?
It is really hard to blame our forgetfulness on visits to the graveyard. But we don’t even need to, do we? How many ads do we come across daily? When we turn on our TVs, when we open our mail boxes, read the paper, or even just take a walk, we are basically bombarded with thousands of unnecessary details.
~
We are back at her house. The prayers start and they take a while. Many people leave after the modest ceremony, before we all gather again for dinner at the coffee house. Some are on the veranda enjoying the good weather. A group of my grandmother’s close friends and family are together in the living room. I find an empty seat between Aunt Hatice and Aunt Memnune. I ask them about my grandma’s strong memory and why our generation forgets so much. Aunt Hatice is the leader of their reading and reflection group, and basically a fountain of knowledge. Her green eyes penetrate deep into mine. She talks slowly and clearly:
"Every blessing comes with its own negatives. Listen to many beautiful women about how hard it can sometimes be. Kids are great, but they are also too much work and responsibility. You would like to be the top person in your company, but be prepared for longer hours. Technology is great, too. But it is taking away something that we can’t buy back. "
I think about Alzheimer’s and dementia rates, which are at all-time highs. Alzheimer’s is officially the 6th leading cause of death in the United States. It kills more than prostate and breast cancer combined. An estimated 5.2 million Americans had the disease in 2014. Due to its slow-developing nature, it is the most expensive condition in the nation, costing an estimated $214 billion.
"Aunt Hatice, do you think with all the videos, tablets, apps, and calculators, we have too much stuff to help us, which makes our brains lazier?” I ask.
“Like an unused muscle shrinking," she replies.
"When I was in high school, I knew all my close friends’ and relatives’ phone numbers by heart. I only know a few right now. I just find the name on my phone and dial it," I add.
Aunt Mesude is my grandmother’s younger sister. Her positive energy is irresistible. No matter your age, you will never get bored spending time with her. She starts talking, too. “Hatice, they have too many details to think about. When we were young, our lives were much simpler."
She has a point.
“We make choices on a daily basis about so many things, from which clothes to pick from our cluttered closets, to matching our outfit with the right jewelry, purse, or shoes. We have to choose whether to listen to local or global news, then react to them by checking social media posts, tweets, and popular videos on YouTube," I say.
“Some of which just is a waste of time and would never bring any good to our lives or anybody else’s, for that matter,” my Aunt Mesude adds with a smile.
If you only had two sets of clothes, like my grandmother had when she was young, one that she would wear every day, and one for special occasions, then you would not spend any time deciding what to wear the next day, or trying to match it with the right accessories. You also would not need to think about the clutter in your house, or the laundry and ironing. Just reducing the number of clothes one owns takes much off of your mind. Imagine how much free time people would have for real conversations with real human beings – or to read books, listen to the birds, stop and smell the roses – if they had one less social media account or TV show to follow.
“She was always surrounded by people, living in a big family. She also visited friends a lot, and had lots and lots of company,” Aunt Memnune says, joining in. She is another one of the sisters, and a very beautiful woman.
“She was a very religious woman. She followed the Prophet’s way. You know: ‘Whoever desires the expansion in his sustenance and a prolonged life should treat his relatives with kindness,’” adds another local woman, quoting the Prophet.
Aunt Hatice adds, “Maintain the bonds of kinship.”
“Now people seem to be more isolated, watch more TV, play more games. They have less time for others, even their own kids,” says Aunt Memnune.
Aunt Hatice mentions great scholars Shafi and Nursi, and she says it is a very difficult society in which to grow another Shafi or Nursi.
Shafi, an outstanding 9th century scholar, was once asked a question after class by his teacher.
“Did you understand?” the teacher asked.
As a person who would never lie, Shafi answered, “No.”
His teacher made an interesting suggestion. “My son, quit sinning.”
Shafi said he listened to the advice, and as a result of this, God opened up his abilities, which were planted like seeds inside of him and then grew as big as oak trees.
Nursi, another prominent writer and scholar, whose books have been translated into more than 40 languages and have been in print for more than 80 years, and who was known to have a photographic memory, finished his whole education in three months, earning the highest qualifications. He had at least 90 books memorized. It is well known that when he went to Istanbul, he put a sign on his door saying, “All Questions Are Answered, None Will Be Asked.”
Many scholars came and took on this daring challenge. But Nursi never failed. A friend of his, whom he encountered 30 years later, asked him:
“We sat together at those desks. You passed us like lightning. What is the secret of this?”
Nursi said he found a basket hanging down from the sky. He held on to it and it carried him up. When he was asked about the basket, he explained that it was taqwa, which he defined as a high state of the heart.
“Where do you find taqwa these days?” asks Aunt Mesude.
I knew Nursi’s answer, but I wanted to know Aunt Hatice’s.
“What is taqwa?”
“A person who has taqwa is conscious of God’s presence and it motivates them to perform righteous deeds and avoid the unlawful. It includes dressing modestly, and exposing our ears and eyes only to appropriate things.”
Inappropriate scenes may come up any time on your screen, even when you least expect them. Needless to say, with the latest technology, some images we come across are so powerful, they make a place for themselves in our minds, possibly pushing out other ideas and thoughts. I know the brain is a container which never fills up; the more you learn, the more you can learn. However, these ads, images, movies, and pictures are not learning. We passively take them in. And many images we see and videos we watch may drastically change the way we feel by affecting our hormones.
Aunt Hatice continues, "Taqwa can be compared to walking through a narrow tunnel with thorny bushes on both sides. A person passing through it tries their best to not get hurt.”
"The thorns must be the sins. What are the clothes?” I ask.
"Your faith."
"The less taqwa you have, the worse your memory will get," Aunt Mesude adds.
"I once listened to Ihsan Kasimoglu, a much respected scholar from Iraq, who translates Nursi’s Turkish tafseer into Arabic. He said that he could not do any translations for a whole month after he listened to the local news for 20 minutes,” I contribute.
"Now think about all the unnecessary information that flows into our brains, from stories about celebrities, soccer games, and TV series; now just imagine how much this could affect our minds," says Aunt Mesude.
Another local woman joins us. She says, “Your grandmother never slept in the early hours of the sunrise and before dusk. Sleeping at those times is really bad for your brain."
Aunt Memnune says, "If you want to have a good memory like her, eat 21 raisins with seeds each morning."
"Also eat healthy and get enough sleep," says Aunt Hatice.
"Think systematically rather than dreaming aimlessly," says Aunt Mesude.
Then there is a short silence. Aunt Hatice breaks it. “Since I believe the brain is created by God, I also believe that it would be wise to listen to the Maker about how to keep it healthier and prolong its life.
I would believe anything these women say. The way we dress and talk, the things we read and listen, the way we pray and exercise, what we eat and how we work: all these have an effect on our brain, hormones, and whole body. And it is an amazing thing that brain cells made out of matter can store and keep information for such a long time and bring it out whenever we need it.
I have so much more to ask these amazing women. Is my generation forgetful, or do we also have a harder time learning? Are we just forgetting mundane things, or are we also forgetting bigger things, like right and wrong, or even important memories?
But our conversation comes to an end. It is time for dinner. It will be a potluck dinner at the local coffee house situated at the center of the island. We all start walking. The coffee house has a yard where they put roundtables and portable chairs for funerals, weddings, or other parties. The family is not supposed to cook. The local people bring the food. A lot of people also help to serve the food.
I meet some of my cousins, many of whom I haven’t seen in years. We sit and talk. After some more conversation, I also eat. The food is so comforting. I look around and drift off into my own thoughts. All the actions and conversations around me turn into a hum, a song. I feel warmth swaddling me. The prayers, the good food, the help we have been given, the friendship we have been shown… all of it makes me feel the whole town is wrapping me in a warm embrace.
May you rest in peace, Granny.

A Pair of New Shoes

Louima Cunningham — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 00:00:00 +0000

A pair of young feet in a pair of very old shoes walked along an awfully muddy road. The nine-year-old girl prayed with every squelch of the mud, “Isn’t it time for a new pair of shoes yet? Oh please, a brand-new pair for once!”

She stopped in front of a vast puddle. “What do you think? Is it possible?” she asked her reflection in the murky water. “No way,” snapped back the image. “With a bunch of brothers and sisters and cousins donating their hand-me-downs every year you stand no chance.”

“Oh well! Hope springs eternal,” muttered the little girl and avenged the answer by stomping on the cruel “other.”

She hurried up to the school just around the corner. There was no one in sight. She was late again. Teachers’ voices blended from the broken windows. She entered her classroom. The teacher let her take her seat with a reproachful look that set her cheeks on fire instantly. The little girl wondered how her cheeks could burn while her feet were ice cold.

She scanned the class discreetly after she had taken her seat. All she saw was a bunch of freezing kids, a door that would not close, and windows that, like her shoes, welcomed everything in. She tried to think of something funny to lift up her spirit. Alas! Even jokes were scarce in her life. Patience was the only thing she had in abundance to help her survive till the end of the school day.

The little girl took the same path in the opposite direction toward home, lost in her thoughts. She felt very insignificant and the fact that her problem seemed irrelevant to the rest of the world increased her desperation.

* * *

At home Mom heard the little girl bark a terrible cough by the burning stove. She fixed her stare on the little shoes drying nearby, then grabbed the shoes and checked them as she had done several times before, only to confirm that in their desolate state the shoes could not stand one more nail. They were about to fall apart. Now it was Mom’s turn to worry.

“Mom, let me buy her new shoes!” Big Sister saved the day. She was volunteering to buy them from her pocket money, usually spent on stuff for her trousseau. Mom consented to Big Sister’s proposal, despite Grandma’s strong belief that it was past the time for her to get married anyway.

The little heart leapt with joy. “For real? Brand new shoes? Tomorrow?”

* * *

The next day came with a lethargic sun, as much anticipated tomorrows always do. The little girl was anxious.

“Let’s go!” The two sisters walked along the street, the big one squeezing her money, the little one squeezing her heart to keep it in place.

The shoe store struck the little girl with terror. It was unpleasantly cold. The saleswoman snailed around, making things worse. Most unfortunately, there was nothing on the metal grid shelves except for a pair of papa-sized boots and a couple of black slippers. Her little heart sank.

The saleswoman and Big Sister exchanged pleasantries. The saleswoman spoke annoyingly slowly as if chatting for the first time in a very long while. Finally the chitchat was over.

“I would like to buy a new pair of shoes for my sister,” Big Sister said, emphasizing the “new” unnecessarily. She was handling the situation so calmly you would think she was buying her daily bread.

The saleswoman stared at the little girl from head to toe and back, though all she needed to inspect were her feet. “I don’t think I have anything for her,” she said matter-of-factly, ”but let me check to be sure.” She disappeared into the unlit back. The little girl wished the saleswoman might disappear completely rather than come back empty-handed. She could take waiting a lifetime, but facing empty hands would be unbearable.

The saleswoman came back with a box. “What’s her size?” The big sister muttered the number. “A one-size-fits-all size,” translated the little heart. “This pair is one size smaller, but this is the closest I can get.” The saleswoman was obviously paying attention only to Big Sister.

The little girl took the right shoe. She almost swooned at the smell of new leather. She squeezed her foot into the shoe. “It hurts, but don’t show it,” said her little heart. She suddenly turned into Cinderella’s stepsister, ready to cut off her toes if need be. Big Sister, not easily fooled, bent down and felt the curled toes. “No, no, you can’t walk straight with these shoes.” The little girl stepped back, defiant. “You’ll have to cut my feet off to take them off me!” her eyes challenged.

The saleswoman, sensing a storm approaching, made a move to prevent the family crisis. “Why don’t you come on Monday?” she said. “A new shipment will be available then.” The girl watched the saleswoman’s face intently for a wink at Big Sister. Deadly serious, the saleswoman did not even blink. With no other option, the little girl dragged herself out of the store.

The two sisters walked silently on the street, the big one squeezing the money, the little one clenching her fists. Too bad there was no one to punch. The little heart was ice cold, yet a flickering flame of faint hope kept burning in a far corner.

“Who am I kidding?” thought the little girl. “Even if she gets new supplies, who says she will get my size? Besides, in two days there is plenty of time for my sister to change her mind or spend the money on some you-can’t-find-it–elsewhere bedspread. By Monday there is even enough time, God forbid, for some distant relative to materialize from nowhere with a pair of very old, smelly shoes, and that would be a nightmare.”

They entered their small apartment. The little girl went straight to her room and sat on her bed, painfully hearing Big Sister explain to Mom and Grandma why they had returned empty-handed. She heard the door open slowly, but she did not turn to look, knowing that no one else but Grandma could be coming in.

Grandma sat by her side with a frown. In her story-telling voice she spoke:

“Once upon a time, there lived a young man in a very far land. He walked down the streets of his little town looking at his shabby shoes, feeling very unhappy, and wondering why he couldn’t have a new pair of shoes. At that moment he passed by a beggar leaning on an oak tree, his hand stretched out asking for alms. As he looked closely he realized that the beggar had no legs. The young man grew very sad and felt ashamed of himself. ‘Shame on me! This man doesn’t have feet and I am feeling miserable because I don’t have decent shoes.’ He reproached himself and gave thanks to God for his feet.” Smiling and caressing little girl’s hair, Grandma continued, “See, my dear, do not despair. God willing, you will get what you don’t have. Meanwhile be thankful for what you already have. Contentment of the heart is the greatest of treasures.”

The little girl, having understood very swiftly the message of the story could not help but comment, “But Grandma, I want to be grateful for my feet and a pair of new shoes.” Grandma smiled at her and whispered, as if revealing a well-kept secret, “God increases the bounties when we thank him. If you are thankful for your feet, he may grant you a pair of shoes as well. Remember, contentment of the heart is the greatest treasure.” After kissing the little girl on the forehead, she left the room as quietly as she had entered it.

The little girl tried to reason, although her brain was turned upside down. “That seems like good advice. What could I be thankful for?” she asked herself. “Well, I have a wonderful grandmother for a start,” she thought with a smile.

* * *

On Monday afternoon they went back to the store. First, the saleswoman smiled at them, and then she sluggishly disappeared into the back. “Thank goodness this time I was spared the torment of pleasantries,” the little girl thought, relieved.

With a box in her hands and the air of a savior on her face the saleswoman returned. She lifted the lid and handed the right shoe to the little girl. It fit perfectly. Ta da! Boy, would Cinderella be surprised, or should I say jealous! Stepsister or no, this time she got the shoes. Her little heart was overflowing with bliss until Big Sister stepped into the middle of the majestic celebration. Now what?

“The color…,” she said. “Dark red is not a very appropriate color. Only black and brown polishes are available. They’ll soon get muddy.”

“I did my best,” the saleswoman announced in surrender. Little eyes pleaded with Big Sister, the shoebox crushed in an unyielding embrace. With the saleswoman no longer an ally, Big Sister waved the white flag.

They left the store with the new shoes inside the box. The new shoes would look wonderful under her desk tomorrow. The whole school would marvel at them. Her little heart was beating like a crazy bird in a cage. Her prayer had been answered.

Wait a minute! The girl stopped. Remembering what her grandmother had told her, she paused and whispered, “Thank you,” to the One who had given her all bounties.

“I will never forget this day,” the little girl promised.

* * *

But the little girl did forget her promise for many years until the day she witnessed a father trying hard to convince his whining little child that plain shoes are as good as the ones with Pooh Bear printed on them. She once again longed for that sincere thank-you, craving the genuine way it came out of her lips on that memorable day of her life when she got her first ever brand-new shoes.

Mirkena Ozer had her major in Turkish language and literature. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.