The Secret of Hawa Noor

The first day after my mother died, I wept.

The second day she was prayed over and buried. On the third and fourth days, guests came from all over to pay their respects, exalting my mother and handing me gifts I felt no joy in receiving. On the fifth, I wept more.

In my religion, Islam, grieving should only last three days. I don't know who came up with that rule, but they must have never lost anyone in their lives.

On the sixth day, I was calm enough to rummage through my mother's home and final belongings. The house received a $20,000 appraisal, sufficient for a down payment on a newer house for my father. My siblings were too wrapped up in grief to even go back into the home. So they left it to me, the black sheep, the outcast, to clean up and get the house ready to sell.

As I entered the door of my childhood home, the smell of oud hit me first. The earthy scent mixed always felt of home, of her, even after seven years. I could feel the lump in my throat forming, but I pushed it down. I strolled into the tiny 4-bed room ranch home and entered the living room. I almost forgot how jarring my mom's taste in furniture was. The garish gold curtains, intricate Persian rugs, and tufted burgundy couches always made me think my mom had a gaudy Italian fashion designer as an alter ego. The Quran* quotes covered the walls with their lovely Arabic calligraphy. Speckled in between were our family photos, my siblings and I with our toothless grins at award ceremonies or Eid* celebrations. We dressed to the nines in our best clothes so no one would ever accuse Hawa Noor's children of looking unkempt.

The living room itself wasn't too dirty, just a couple of pieces of clothes here and there, so I shuffled to the kitchen. The dishes piled up in the sink, and the floor was sticky under my feet. My mom must have spilled tea and tried her best to clean it. She probably was too tired to finish. A pang of guilt hit my chest thinking of all those times I was too busy to come by after work and school, an excuse I used to stay away from her.

"Push it down," I thought.

So I kept going from room to room. The three other rooms needed a definite deep cleaning, the rugs we filthy, and a dust layer coated all the furniture. The bathroom was just as dirty as well, with every chromed surface covered in grime. The last room was hers—the room of the distinguished Hawa Noor. I grabbed the knob and turned, but the door would hardly budge. I pushed again, this time with more force. No dice. One more time, I pushed with all the energy I could muster from my shoulders and my feet. The door was slightly ajar, and I slid in as it closed behind me. I turned on the lights, and the sight before I made me finally give in to my tears. I cried for 15 minutes before I began to inventory a hoard of the trash before me. There were boxes piled high around my mother's bed, trash bags filled with clothes or bedsheets, and bins filled with documents we wouldn't need. My sister told me it was terrible, but I didn't think it was this dire. She was a hoarder. Now I was the only one able to clean up the mess. No wonder she never wanted to sell the house.

It's incredible how much you can clean after drinking a large coffee with two espresso shots. I managed to scale down the bulky boxes and bags of clothes with ease, sorting as my life depended on it. I was down to my last box before I knew it. This box was the largest, and I couldn't even lift it. I slid it in front of the bed, cut it open with my makeshift box cutter, and began to dive in. The papers in this box appeared ancient, with thin pieces of paper that seemed too fragile to hold. All the writing was in Somali, our native tongue. Oddly enough, it was my mother's handwriting. My mother hardly spoke English, and it was one of her greatest shames as someone who lived in America for 30 years. She expected she should speak and write it fluently by now. So I was surprised to find she could write so eloquently in Somali. Hawa Noor is full of surprises today. I ruffled through the box, pulling out old photos of my mom in her teens with her family in Somalia. Her on her father's farm with goats and camels in the backdrop. She was beautiful, her skin bronzed and glowing in the sun even in these old pictures. I foraged some more and found a little black book. The book's leather was worn with use and had slips of paper peeking through the pages. I opened it to see my mother's handwriting yet again.

The words written before me were just thoughts, ideas, fears, and all my mother's words with no hesitation. I felt the contrast of these words from the quiet, stiff-upper-lipped woman I knew. I slid down from the bed to the floor, flipped through the journal. I was surprised at how vulnerable this side of her was. She wrote about her fears of coming to America and raising kids in a world where she would be an outcast. She talked about how she hated her new boss in a humorous way that I didn't know she possessed. Best of all, she wrote about us, her family, and how my siblings and I brought her the most joy and worry.

I loved reading about how my baby sister's laugh was the sweetest sound she knew. Or when she recalled when my brother crashed the family car in an accident and how afraid she was of losing us, especially after fleeing the war. Halfway through my snooping, I found a page that appeared to be for me. I perused the page and fell on a line that struck me: "I don't know why I pushed her away. She never needed anything from me. She never asked anything from me. The one time she needed my help, I let her down. I was worried I would lose her, and I lost her anyway." Though I cried, it was nice to know all those years of feeling like she was isolating me. I was right. Granted, I was a troublesome kid, but I never wanted to hurt my mom, and now I know she never wanted to hurt me. She didn't know how to show that.

I didn't stop reading. I flipped through pages wanting to learn everything my mom couldn't share. The stoic woman has few friends but respect from the community. The pious woman who dealt punishments often and kindness rarely. I found the gentle woman who laughed at her own words and found joy in the small things in these pages.

I found the secret life of Hawa Noor.

*Quran- Mulsim holy book.

*Edi- Muslim religious celebration.