Mother never cried

MY mother was not the sort of woman to cry in front of an audience, nor even in the intimacy of a small gathering, nor even before me, her flesh and blood. If she wept at all – and I suspect she did – it was likely in the dead of night, with no witnesses but the moon and the crickets. For her, grief was not a spectacle. It was a private ritual, cloaked in silence and solitude. She was a fortress, unyielding and stoic, a monument to endurance that time itself could not erode.

On the other hand, my father was a man whose tears came as naturally as rain in December. I still remember with painful clarity the day my younger brother took a tumble from a bamboo bridge. He lay there, unconscious, his small, fragile body limp as a wet rag. My father cradled him, his sobs splitting the air like a thunderstorm that had broken loose inside him. It was raw, unfiltered emotion, the grief that made even the angels avert their eyes. Yet, even in that moment of familial anguish, my mother’s face remained an enigma. Her hands worked swiftly, her voice calm as she directed the rest of us to fetch water, find help, or do something. If she cried that day, it was a secret she took with her to the grave.

I lived nearly 65 years before my mother passed, and not once in all that time did I catch her shedding a tear. Not a one. Not even when the whole world seemed to be falling to pieces, as it has a habit of doing now and again. She was close to 90 when she passed, but even if she had lived to 100, she might have continued to keep her tears to herself like they were some kinds of treasure too dear to spend. But don’t mistake her for hard or heartless – oh, no. Her strength wasn’t the kind that freezes you out; it was the kind that warms you up without making a fuss about it. She held the family together like the keel of a boat, steady against the storm, and she offered her comfort plain and simple with no more words than were necessary. She was that way – steady, quiet, and as enduring as the hills.

The Journey Back Without the Baby

A memory stands out from the late 1950s when I was just a small boy, no older than preschool. It was a time when hospitals were distant luxuries and journeys to them were arduous undertakings. My mother had gone to a hospital 40 miles away – 27 miles of winding, bitumen-sealed road and 13 miles of jungle trek – to deliver a child. My father had accompanied her, leaving us children in the care of our grandmother.

When they returned days later, there was no baby in their arms. The infant died soon after birth. It was too much for them to bring the tiny body back to the village, so they left it to the authorities to handle. I remember the way my mother walked into the house that day. She moved slowly, her usually energetic gait subdued, her hands empty. For a woman who was often talkative and filled the house with songs or humming, she was eerily silent for weeks afterwards.

At the time, I didn’t understand the depth of her loss. I only knew that something had changed, as if a piece of her spirit had been buried alongside that child. Thinking about it now, I wonder if she had shed all her tears during that long, gruelling journey back to the village. Perhaps she had cried in the jungle, where the trees and shadows bore silent witness to her grief. But by the time she reached home, she had locked that sorrow away, presenting only the unbreakable fortress we had always known.

The Cassava Lesson

Another memory, vivid and etched into my soul, comes from the planting season. We had ventured to our hill paddy farm to check on the cassava we had planted months earlier. If you’ve never farmed cassava, it’s a root vegetable that tests your patience and determination. The tubers grow underground, hidden from view, and you never quite know what you’ll get until you dig them up.

That day, my mother knelt on the hillside, her hands roughened by years of toil, and pulled up one of the cassava stems. I watched her intently, eager for a sign that our labour had paid off. When she finally unearthed the tuber, it was a pitiful thing – small, no larger than my scrawny arm. My heart sank. I was too young to articulate my disappointment, but I could see it mirrored in my mother’s eyes.

A lesser woman might have cursed the heavens or lashed out in frustration, but not my mother. She let out a small, resigned sigh and began gathering sticks to build a fire right there on the hillside. She roasted the tiny tuber over the flames, its skin charring and splitting as the starchy aroma filled the air. My stomach growled loudly, betraying my hunger. I assumed Mother would eat it herself as she was the one who dug it up.

But when the tuber was cooked, she handed it to me. “You need it more,” she said, her voice steady and matter-of-fact. I didn’t argue. I was too hungry, too young to question the quiet sacrifice she had made. I devoured that tuber as though it were a banquet fit for kings, oblivious that she had likely gone hungry so I could eat.

Years later, after life had imparted its lessons of sacrifice and hardship, I finally grasped the significance of that moment. That single act of giving embodied everything my mother was. She didn’t require grand gestures or elaborate words to express her love; her actions spoke volumes. Her quiet sacrifices were proof of the depth of her care.

A Mother’s Grief, a Daughter’s Relief

When my grandmother passed away, she died in our house, surrounded by the family she had helped raise. I can’t recall if my mother cried that day. Perhaps she did. Or maybe, true to form, she kept her tears hidden, locked away in some quiet corner of her soul. What stands out is how she cared for my grandmother during her final years, attending to her with such patience and tenderness that it spoke louder than words ever could.

Later, I learned that my mother mourned her mother deeply, though not in the way you might expect. My grandmother’s life had been filled with pain and loneliness. She had outlived her siblings, cousins, and most of her friends. By the time she reached her twilight years, she was a solitary figure, her days haunted by memories of a world that no longer existed. My mother hated to see her suffer, and when the end finally came, it was as much a relief as it was a sorrow.

Years later, when my mother passed, I found myself mourning her in much the same way. I grieved for her absence, yes, but I also felt a strange kind of peace. She had lived a long, full life, filled with quiet strength and immeasurable love. Her struggles were over, and I took comfort in the knowledge that she had finally found rest.

The Moral of Quiet Strength

If there’s a moral to this story – and I believe there is – it’s this: strength doesn’t always look how you expect it to. It isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s in the tears we hold back, not the ones we shed. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet sacrifices we make for the ones we love, even when they go unnoticed. And sometimes, it’s how we roast a tiny cassava tuber on a hillside and hand it to a hungry child, saying, “You need it more”.

My mother never needed to proclaim her love or her strength. She lived it, every single day. And though she is gone now, her lessons remain. They live on in the choices I make; how I treat others, and in the quiet moments when I wonder if she is watching, still the fortress she always was.

And if she is – if she can see me now – I hope she knows that I finally understand. I understand the strength it took to endure, the love it took to give, and the courage it took to remain unshaken in the face of life’s storms. I understand, and I am grateful.

‘A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavour by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.’ – Washington Irving (1783-1859), an American author, essayist, biographer, and historian best known for his short stories and essays. He is considered one of the first American writers to achieve international acclaim.

The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com