“Your children have never seen you naked? How is that possible? I saw the wheels spinning behind Lucy’s eyes as she blinked astoundingly at Soraya. Two worlds were colliding here.
“Yes. This is the first time they would share bathroom with me. What business does my children have in my room when each person’s room is ensuite?
A few blank faces met other comprehending ones around the room.
“Each of your kids had their own room? Lucy asked again
And few of us nodded like the question was thrown at us while a black woman sitting beside her remarked “well that is a normal thing for us”
We were at a Wellbeing group for women run weekly by a Charity. I began attending although sporadically, after a referral when I was newly diagnosed of the Cancer.
Priceless. What this group has become in this new journey of mine. This space is a buffer for your sanity. A gathering of women from different walks of life talking over chai and coffee. This journey of cancer has redefined therapy for me. I am still redefining the word – cathartic.
In this space, language is not a barrier. Between; translation apps, gestures and someone else from your community with a better grasp of English, we understood ourselves.
Soraya is a Persian. The first time we met I had been impressed by her command of the English language. An inkling of her privileged background.
“Yes, we have a big house. And servants. My house is always full. Parties, laughter, we cook fresh food. But here, some people look at you like you are a beggar and do not know anything”. Her voice cracked as she wiped at her eyes
One of the women beside her rubbed her back.
“See my pictures”
Brandishing her phone; she circulated pictures of another life. One I grasped from where I sat. I had acquired enough social intelligence growing up in northern Nigeria to know what it means for a Muslim woman to share facilites with her teenage sons.
“Here. Said a volunteer pushing a cup of tea towards Soraya.
“Ladies, we can take a break if you want” Lucy announced. I felt sorry for her. She seemed totally out of her depth dealing with women across cultures.
We agreed to continue.
Asya, an Afghan and a first-time mother of a two month old baby, began speaking tentatively. Her baby was in the arms of another woman.
“I still find it very hard here. My husband says I will get used to it but when?”
“When I came here to the UK, I was ……… she searched her mental files for the word. As she grappled with her basic English, Soraya intervened. They both spoke Farsi.
“shocked”
“Yes. Shocked.
“Small houses. No parties. No markets. No people come to your house”
“As new wife, you alone and my husband go to work.”
All my life, lot of people inside house and outside. Children playing everywhere. Here, it is quiet like everyone run away.
“When I was pregnant, no mother, no grandmother to help. My baby take long to come and then they cut me to bring baby out. In hospital, they give me cold food.
Her voice quaked as she tried to compose herself. Some women nodded.
“Only me with baby until my husband come back from work.” Sometimes we don’t know what to do. sometimes I call my mother on phone”
“Do you not have help from other women in your community?” Lucy enquired
“Not same. They come and go. Nobody to stay with you and care for you and baby”
Her pain pierced me. It was one most BAME immigrants related to. For everything she described, an image flashed across my mind.
Nonetheless, the ironic use of the word ‘community’ abroad constantly amused me.
Even the people who felt inundated by community and craved their spaces back home, now cry out for community.
The other day, a Nigerian man had remarked how he missed the cacophony of the streets. Another missed waking up to see your neighbours setting up canopies knowing that your entire day was already lost to the noise of their party.
Yet, another missed the ‘disturbance’ from the church beside his house. How he disliked going home from work because of them but now willing to have them pitch their tent right back beside him.
Everyone now missed and craved ‘community’ including their mothers-in-law.
Listening to Asya share her story, my mind popped up an image. The countless times I had spent wishing a knock on the would be my mother showing up for duty.
