a place to call home

When I was a child, I didn’t notice that we were different. I didn’t notice that other mothers didn't wear miniskirts and leather jackets to parents evening. I didn't notice that other children weren’t taken on these insane thrilling holidays at least twice a year, where there would be dancing, laughing and crying and feeling truly connected to the world and everyone in it. I didn’t notice how other people's homes didnt have 713 books, five guitars and six cats. I thought everyone’s mum was special, a philanthropist and moved mountains and their actions aligned with their values. Today you can find my mother in our cosy London flat which has art covering every inch of space and books spilling off shelves and onto the floors and tables. We have a pile of bills and receipts living on our sofa, which my mother will sometimes shred. Her books range from French philosophy to art encyclopedias, but most are psychology books that helped her out of some dark places and which now help me on my journey. My mother’s name is Cina.

One of the most special memories I have with my mother is in Paris when I was around 7 years old, and my sister 10 years old. There was an exhibition on celebrating the work of Yves Saint Laurent, with his most beautiful dresses of all time displayed. We went to the exhibition, completely surrounded by elegance and grace, worlds away from anything we had seen before. I remember the gorgeous silhouettes created and the materials used, feathers, diamonds and gold. We wanted to capture the art so we took out our camera and started to take photos. The security guards informed us that we weren’t allowed to take photos so my mother came up with a solution. She told us to wait right here, left the gallery and returned 20 minutes later with three sketchbooks and three sticks of charcoal. We all sat on the floor of the gallery, spending the rest of our time sketching the art, recreating the beautiful lines and curves. She gives us room to express ourselves and create.

Cina’s life began in Paris and her flat couldn't be more different to the airy, creative one we are currently quarantined in. She is of Tunisian origin, raised in a conservative, white French neighbourhood. The entire flat was the size of my bedroom and shared with three siblings as well as her mother and father, with little space for anything like expression or art, there was only space for wallpaper. Her early surroundings were hostile so she immersed herself in free galleries and libraries, trying to escape into the opportunities this new land gave her. My grandmother would often give her two euros, so she could walk as far as she possibly could from her neighbourhood and then take the metro home. There was a deep sense of isolation and darkness within her as she was subject to the racism of her peers and didn’t feel accepted by her family. She wore wigs to cover her Afro hair and draw less attention to herself. In her teen years she would often go to the library from open to close, returning at midnight to a slap in the face. Eventually her escapism morphed from books into drugs as the darkness within her grew and the world opened itself up to her. Cina slowly but surely went off the rails, discovering punk music, squatting and older men. It felt like both the pious society she lived in and her own family had exiled her from their worlds so she decided to create her own world from scratch. Her mother ostracised her for her destructive ways of coping but her father empathised and just wanted her to be honest. They even smoked cigarettes at the dinner table together, understanding each other's pain, their smoke and ashes becoming one and filling up the tiny apartment.

When my mother was an early teenager, she went on a school trip to Bath, England. This glimpse into another way of living excited her. She was amazed by how quaint England was, how lovely the lighting was and especially how humble the English people were. At one point, she lost her camera and a kind stranger stumbled upon it and returned it to her. She was so grateful to him and thought about how that would never happen in Paris.

The years of being misunderstood all came to a crescendo in her early 20s as her drug abuse became more severe. Sometimes she would wake up in alleyways covered in blood, not knowing what had happened. My mother met my father singing the blues and they quickly moved in together and fell in love. As she descended deeper and deeper into her own mind, Cina discovered she was pregnant. Music was what kept this relationship running and was the only thing that truly eased her pain. My pregnant mother would busk and sing the blues everywhere she could with my father. At this point, she was estranged from her family and felt more alone than ever before. She felt trapped by French society’s judgement and decided she needed a change. Cina thought back to the peaceful English skies and the people who tried to help others. She decided that England was the place for her. Cina arrived with no place to stay, relying completely on the kindness of acquaintances and strangers who let her sleep on their sofas. One time, she even got sexually assaulted. After some time, she moved into a studio flat so small that there was only space for a single mattress on the floor and they had to crawl on the bed to enter and exit. Her relationship with my father fell apart. Things seemed dark but finally there was a place to call home.

A few years back, my mother worked with a dementia group, providing support to those affected and their families. All of the patients had touching stories and interesting pasts but she felt some of the patients from migrant backgrounds weren’t as valued as the others, often being talked over and dismissed by the people meant to take care of them. This deeply saddened her, and she recognised herself in these people. One of the patients was Egyptian and used to work in the Egyptian army’s band as a trumpet player. He reminisced on these old times, wishing he could play his instrument again. My mother was moved by this and reached out to networks of musicians, asking if anyone had a trumpet that they were not using. The response was positive and my mother ended up surprising him with a trumpet!

My older sister had just been born and my mother was suffering from postnatal depression as well as a drug addiction. Cina realised that this was not the life she wanted to live, that she could not just think about her own suffering now, and that this needed to end. She began going to Narcotics Anonymous and taking out self help books from the library. The people at Narcotics Anonymous often had a support network who would bail them out so they never had to grow up and get better. My mother did not have this, she stood alone in this world, a young woman with a newborn looking up to her. For better or for worse, she stood alone in this world and she was in the driving seat. Cina carried on going to her Narcotics Anonymous meetings, she became part of a strong community at church and she saved money for the future. When I came into this world she was getting better and better by the day. She gave us the things she didn’t have- art, expression and freedom. We have travelled to 15 countries together and I have travelled to more on my own. Recovery is not easy- it is the single most difficult but brave thing an individual can do. We moved into the flat we live in now, with large windows letting in the natural light. My mother now has a weekly singalong with babies and their parents. She specifically wants to help single mothers, immigrant mothers and those suffering from postnatal depression, so that no one has to struggle alone as she did. I guess my mother has not moved mountains. But she has moved the darkness out of her mind and held it up to the light. Everyone who meets my mum sees her as a ray of positivity, blessing all those she comes into contact with. She has transformed her difficult experiences into gifts which she uses to heal the world. Two summers ago, Cina planted some cherry seeds and forgot about them. Today I can see that same cherry tree from my bedroom window upstairs.