My earliest memory of truly feeling alive amid trees is the time spent running and hopping around a small grove of eucalyptus trees at my grandparents’ home. I must’ve been 7 or 8 years old and I can recall swinging around each tree, while singing the timeless ‘Pehla nasha, pehla khumaar’ song. In the song, actress Ayesha Jhulka is dreamily pacing through woods, running around trees and falling onto a bed of hay. I would emote that scene, circling around the trees’ white lean barks several times, and gazing at their tops touching the sky.

The memory returned as I found myself surrounded by cypress and cedar trees in Taiwan’s Alishan National Area, a few weeks ago. These lofty giants have been standing there for centuries, and being in their company brought a sense of calm and dhairya — patience. There they were, standing tall, offering life to every organism around them, without moving an inch. They were in community with others, taking their own space, doing their own bit, and as a whole influencing the larger ecosystem.

Forest ecologist Dr Suzanne Simard has spent her life investigating and recognising how trees communicate in a forest and share resources with one another. Some experts believe that crown shyness could be a way to contain insect spread from one tree to the other. Their existence then embodies wisdom, their presence a prayer.

“As tall as cypresses, fair as the spring,
The image of their father and their king”

On and off, I’ve been reading Dick Davis’s version of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh - the Book of Kings - where he imagined and quasi-documented Persian civilisation. Time and again, Ferdowsi makes references to trees in his storytelling that spans millennia. The cypress, in fact, is a marker of pride, beauty and glory. Ferdowsi compares the might and wisdom of princes to these ancient giants and effortlessly weaves their presence amid stories of kingdoms lost, found and regained.

“Of cypress stature and of mammoth might,
Two miles will barely show his javelin’s flight.”

Power underwent a change of hands in Persia within Ferdowsi’s lifetime. New rule brought new ideas and challenged existing ones, superimposing its presence. By constantly drawing attention to Persia’s natural world, Ferdowsi maintains a continuity and permanence of a land and civilisation that saw many kings come and go. The more I think of my homeland, India, the more I am drawn to the trees that have been etched in my memory. These are landmarks whose names cannot be changed, whose right to residence cannot be questioned, whose roots run deep and arms stretch far and wide, comfortably belonging where they are.

When I read about Palestinians and their relationship with olive trees, I am convinced that their souls are inter-twined. These trees are their humdard, their witness and guardians. One only needs to read Mahmoud Darwish’s poem The Second Olive Tree to understand that:

The olive tree does not weep and does not laugh…
She lives as a friendly sister of eternity, neighbor of time…
The olive tree is the color of peace, if peace needed
A color. No one says to the olive tree: How beautiful you are!
But: How noble and how splendid! And she,
She who teaches soldiers to lay down their rifles…

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The trees I’ve grown up around are part of my belonging to my home, my city and the country as much as everything else. One of such trees is the litchi tree at my parents’ home. As a kid, I have spent countless hours playing under its shade. For years, an old woman and her husband, with their coal iron, a wooden table and bundles of clothes worked under the shade of that tree, right outside our home. It gave some of the juiciest litchis, which we’d distribute within our neighbourhood and still had our refrigerator stocked for weeks. Despite its age and having lost its ability to bear much fruit now, the tree stands firm and no one messes with the idea of ever cutting it down.

In an attempt to rekindle my relationship with it, I decided to climb it during a visit to my parents’ home last summer. The climb was easy, I managed to stay atop the tree for a good few minutes and observe its arboreal habitat. A squirrel’s nest lay confidently on one of the high branches, another jumped from one tree to the other, lines of ants headed in many directions, fresh spider webs glistened as sunlight peeped through the leaves. What a view that was, and I’d missed enjoying it for so many years.

For me, that litchi tree is a memory-keeper, totem of a place close to my heart. It has offered me grounding, respite even, from all the anxiety and worries that one feels about the reality right now.

An Indian friend from a religious minority recently told me of her decision to move abroad. “It’s not so much that I’m moving to another country, it’s more that I’m leaving India,” she said. Her words echoed a reality that many members of India’s minority communities find themselves in. Like her, many perhaps have no dhairya left to contribute to an environment that is increasingly hostile, and the will and chaah to grow roots there, is withering.

Finding solace in trees is then one way to keep that relationship alive. As long as trees from my childhood stand, home will always be a place that grounds me, keeps me together and helps me draw strength from it. Here I am, putting together all the learnings I can take from them. Feel free to add more 🌳🎋🌳

Learning to ground oneself
Growing in the direction of the light
Not taking oneself too seriously
Changing with the seasons
Extending roots in search of nourishment
Staying humble
Taking in only what’s needed
Letting go of what’s not
Being of service to others
Being generous
Taking space without apology
Learning to hold one’s ground
Being comfortable with one’s idiosyncrasies
Surrendering to winds, rains, storms
Creating love languages with those around us
Being vulnerable to change
Learning to make music with the wind
Doing your bit, one breath at a time
Not rushing
Making home for new friends
Accepting physical changes…

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Mariyam Haider is an independent writer-researcher, spoken word artist and producer & host of Main Bhi Muslim podcast.

If you’re interested in reading more:

• Suzanne Simard: Forests Are Wired For Wisdom (On Being with Krista Tippett)

• The olive tree, symbol of Palestine and mute victim of Israel’s war on Gaza (Al Jazeera)

• A Poem for Land Day: Mahmoud Darwish’s ‘The Second Olive Tree’ (Arablit and ArabLit Quarterly)

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In 2009, on a hot summer morning in Delhi, I found myself sitting in exceptionally cooler temperatures within the halls of Kamala Nehru College. The long corridor had a tunnel effect which brought a light breeze and calmed the nerves of many 18-year old girls waiting for their interviews for admissions in Journalism Honours at the college. This was the first interview of my lifetime, I was an anxious teenager comforted by my Dad’s presence and other candidates waiting their turns. Once inside, a panel of three-four teachers sat across me, and the interview began.

I recognised one professor from the department prospectus, other were all new faces. One teacher was particularly good at breaking conversation rhythm and at one point she went, “Please continue speaking, I’m just stretching my legs here,” right in the middle of my answer. She was also the one who asked me the only question I still remember, “Mariyam, what makes you angry?”

I came out of the interview eased but with adrenaline pulsing through my system. Most of all though, I felt something right about the place. Maybe it was the shock of seeing casually dressed teachers, or the exciting questions, or just the long stretch of that corridor that made want to explore every room in it. I don’t remember much of the remaining day, but for the next three years, KNC, its teachers and its lessons, would change me for the rest of my life.

I remember studying Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, watching Paromita Vohra’s Unlimited Girls, learning about the Watergate scandal, each of them opening my young mind a different way. On us 19-20 year olds, lay the responsibility of organising a department fest, running a publication, making documentaries, writing dissertations, but most of all, we were expected to have opinions. We brought our lost, confused, egoistical selves and unpacked them all, in the safety of our department. Friendships, heartbreaks, celebrations, sleepovers and sleepless movie nights, happened along.

Those years, in one way or the other, coaxed many of us to find our voices and question our gaze. Some educators in their own ways helped me know myself better, sharpening my instincts in calling out many glass ceilings. This is not to say that the education system or educators were flawless, but some of them had the capacity to drive us towards searching for a sense of self.

The recent news of the displacement of KNC’s adhoc faculty member Dr Itisha Nagar after working at DU for a decade, and the ongoing protest by former DU lecturer Dr Ritu Singh, against facing alleged caste discrimination in Daulat Ram College, not just bring to light the patriarchal and casteist forces at play, but also point to the conscientious drain within these institutions.

As per Brookings Institutions 2019 report, in India, private higher educational institutions are twice in number to public institutions (this shocking statistic warrants another essay altogether).

While public universities remain the last bastions of affordable quality education in the country, teachers who help students find their voice, fortify the spirit of such institutions.

Former DU professor, GN Saibaba was recently acquitted of charges that had him spend a decade imprisoned. A snippet of his teaching life (shared online by Civic Studios’ Anushka Shah) by one of his students speaks volumes of his diligence: “For some reason, almost every student in my batch chose Latin and Greek Studies over the Indian paper leaving me as the only student in the course. With his driver helping him move his wheelchair inside the disabled-unfriendly campus, Saibaba had to come to the university to address a class of exactly one student. He was never late and he never missed a lecture.”

These are individuals who value their profession and its role in imparting knowledge to students while asserting their dignity, believe in young minds and their capacity to bring change, have the courage to speak up for their rightful place, and in doing so help so many others as well. The day Dr Nagar announced her departure on social media, her Instagram was flooded with comments from current and former students lamenting her departure, but also thanking her for taking a stand.

Educational institutes stand on the shoulders of such luminaries who help students on the cusp of their adulthoods, find meaningful paths for themselves.

Despite having done my Master’s from another institution and pursued life in different cities, I always look back at my undergrad years as the most formative ones. Beyond the training in journalism, I learnt a lot more from the time spent at KNC. To question everything. To make room for yourself in every space you enter (like stretching your legs in the middle of taking an interview). To challenge hierarchies. To learn to discern the seriousness and lightness of things.

When I see Dr Singh set up a fritters stall outside Daulat Ram College, I see a force of creativity, resilience and fortitude stay alive. Her ingenious way of protesting proves how invaluable an asset she is to young minds and the educational system she rightfully demands to be part of. When I read hundreds of comments by Dr Nagar’s former KNC students, it is a matter of immense heartbreak that they are deprived of such a valuable voice in their undergrad years.

Dr Nagar in her displacement announcement post wrote, “If I had to do it again, would I change anything? Yes. I was not outspoken enough. Rejections are sometimes a mark of doing something right, not wrong.” This and Dr Singh’s clarity underscore that character-building is not restricted to institutional corridors, classrooms and boundary walls.

While KNC offered me a lot to learn, I now see how educators like Dr Nagar and Dr Singh inspire many students to be relentless, to speak up and seek ways to grow beyond the traditional and established corridors of education. The age of innocence I grew up in, where one would find such gems within institutions, might have long gone, but I cannot wait to see how these educators define paths for so many of their students and admirers in times to come.

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Mariyam Haider is an independent writer-researcher, spoken word artist and producer & host of Main Bhi Muslim podcast. Her writing has appeared in Scroll, Kontinentalist, Asian Review of Books, Centre for Feminist Foreign Policy, AWARE, Livemint, Mekong Review, among others. The latest podcast episode is out now:

Main Bhi Muslim

EP27 - Realising the IIT dream and expanding one's horizons

In this episode, MBM’s host Mariyam Haider is in conversation with Ramseena Rasheed from Kasargod, Kerala, who along with her twin sister, Risana, became the first women in their community to clear Joint Entrance Examination (JEE)-advanced, considered one of the toughest entrance exams, to enter the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT…

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2 years ago · 1 like · Main Bhi Muslim™

References:

• Full post by Dr Itisha Nagar on her recent displacement (Dr Nagar’s LinkedIn, Feb 2024)

  • Dr Itisha Nagar’s Instagram post (March 2024)

• “Because I am a Dalit”: A teacher’s battle against caste bias (Ghazala Ahmad, Maktoob Media, Sep 2023)

• PhD Pakkode Wali: opening ceremony delhi university| dr ritu singh daulat ram college case (Dr Ritu Singh YouTube, 4 March 2024)

• Reviving Higher Education in India (Brookings India, November 2019)

• Saibaba Acquittal: From Lack of Sanction to Dodgy Evidence, High Court Judgment Tears Into State's Case (Sukanya Shantha, The Wire, March 2024)

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I hope you become a paid subscriber, which will come with all writings and some new offerings. Fifty percent of the subscription money will be directed towards mutual aid and I will update paid readers regularly on where those contributions are being directed towards.

Thank you for your time and I look forward to growing this small corner with you all. 🌱🌱

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“Shab-e-baraat’s Lamps Have Lit The World Aglow / This Deepavali Shall Drive Away All Darkness!” - Kazi Nazrul Islam

Growing up, Shab-e-Barat was the night of fireworks.

A day before the night, my mother would soak split chickpeas and then cook them in the biggest pressure cooker we had, to prepare chane ki daal ka halwa. Once cooked, both mother and father, would take turns to mash the chickpeas into a pulp with a wooden masher. Crouching on the floor next to them, I would excitedly watch them do this intense workout, and bite into the bland chickpeas (those in attempts to evade their pulpy destinies) fell out of the cooker.

Once thoroughly mashed, this paste would then be put into a cauldron and cooked with ghee, milk and sugar until it caramelised into a magnificent dense brown mixture, ready to be poured over trays and pans. We would then hunt for kitchen knives, as many as could be sourced, to diagonally cut through the mixture making barfi like slices and let it cool over night. The fun really began after the slices were gently laid out in boxes and the cooking ware needed scraping off. Spoons and butter knives were employed to relish the intensely delicious halwa remains.

As evening approached, A dastarkhwan was laid out with halwa in different bowls to offer prayers to the revered historical Islamic figures and our family’s departed elders and loved ones. “Aatishbaazi, nazar aur fateha ke baad.” (Fireworks after the prayers), Dadi would remind us. My father would go light candles at the graves of the family’s departed elders and hand over meals to the graveyard’s caretakers. Later, elders and kids lit candles and lamps around the house - in flower pots, plant beds, in every room (especially where the study table was), and on Dadi’s balcony.

Finally, it would be time for anaar and phuljadi!

Shab-e-Barat possibly has pre-Islamic roots in Persia and over a period of time has been braided with certain significance within the Shia and Sunni traditions. In many Indian (and largely South Asian) families, it is observed as a night of forgiveness, spent in praying, with some remembering their departed family members, as it is believed that their spirits are set free that night.

One could relate this to the way Christian communities remember their departed on All Souls Day, Pitri Paksha noted in Zoroastrian and Hindu calendars, or Ghost Festival practiced in Eastern Asian communities.

I’m the product of ancestors who centuries ago migrated to North India carrying this religion and its traditions, some who adopted and localised these rituals to make them part of my cultural upbringing. As a kid, because of their choices, I got to enjoy fireworks on two nights every year. What was not to pray and thank them for?

Over the years, whichever city I was in, I would try to observe Shab-e-Barat with some light and a small batch of dessert. Something about lamps and sweets always lightened the heart and one’s despondency.

I don’t know what sort of darkness Bangla poet Kazi Nazrul Islam (b.1899 - d.1976) was referring to when he wrote the lines, “Shabe-baraat’s Lamps Have Lit The World Aglow / This Deepavali Shall Drive Away All Darkness!”, but to me they offer a glimmer amid the darkness we find ourselves in. A darkness filled by dimming of hope and continued wilful ignorance. A sense of a long prevailing night lingers where one must live through hearts gone cold, silences and falsehoods during an ongoing genocide, or the fevered dreams of those dancing in the jingoistic highs of fascism.

I’m also beginning to recognise that Shab-e-Barat offers a sense of grounding and comfort, knowing that one can take learnings and even succour from one’s ancestors. Those grand phuphis, cousin khalas, great grand dadis and nanis, whom I never met, but heard stories of and in some shape or form they influenced my upbringing. And why must they all be through lineage? There are ancestors whose lives have shaped my sense of identity and understanding of this world. Women like Ismat Chughtai, Audre Lorde, Rosa Parks, Mary Oliver, the Chipko Andolan activists to name a few.

My former therapist used to invoke a beautiful line in our meditation, asking me to recognise that I am being held by my ancestors. As I observe Shab-e-Barat tonight, I repeat this prayer and honour each one of those whose wisdom, stories, choices, laughter, and life have paved the way for me to recognise my part in this world. I draw comfort and clarity from their lives, to continue working towards freedoms and joys for us all.

We remember our ancestors because we stand on their shoulders, and what a blessing to have so many of them.

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Mariyam Haider is an independent writer-researcher, spoken word artist and producer & host of Main Bhi Muslim podcast. Her writing has appeared in Scroll, Kontinentalist, Asian Review of Books, Centre for Feminist Foreign Policy, AWARE, Livemint, Mekong Review, among others.

References:

• Understanding the History and Purpose of Celebrating Shab-e-Barat (Jawhar Sircar, The Wire, March 2021)

• What is the Chipko movement? (The Indian Express, March 2018)

“Hey… heard the podcasts. Just LOVED them. Your friend is fearless & fantastic.” My friend sent me this message from an acquaintance who listened to my podcast last week. Earlier last year, at Jaipur Literature Festival, I briefly interacted with a North Indian author with whom I shared my podcast work. Without asking much about it, she said, “please be careful, okay?” A friend’s husband on hearing about the podcast called my work “courageous”.

The podcast I run is a space where Indian Muslim women share their lived experiences and stories of navigating this identity in personal and social spaces. These are stories of young footballers from low-income families sharing journeys becoming coaches, authors reliving their early days growing up across different towns in India, or girls from remote districts becoming the first women in their families to clear IIT examinations and becoming engineers. It is surprising then that the first words that these listeners have for the podcast is “fearless”.

On closer look, what they might be saying is the situation is so frightening that to even think of Indian Muslim women simply sharing their journeys doing things they love, is an act of courage.

Nobody is fearless. Fear is very much a part of human condition. We all grow up being afraid of things unique to us: heights, closed spaces, darkness, etc. However, a fear where one is supposed to be worried about their identity, is not borne from within. It is a fear created out of circumstances and systems where to simply be oneself is met with threats and violence. In that scenario, being fearless becomes an act of survival. It is the only thing to keep oneself sane in a mad mad world.

Waking up to news of demolitions, mob menace, attacks on persons or properties with visible markers of Muslim identity, is not just news - it is a threat, a very tangible one. I fear for my parents and loved ones’ safety in the conditions they find themselves in. I fear for my nephews and nieces being bullied or harassed in schools. I fear for my parents’ house being a target simply for being owned by Muslims.

In such scenarios, being called fearless is not a compliment, it is a reminder of the absolute failure of the society we all are part of. What calamitous times do we find ourselves in that I have to be “fearless” to simply talk about an identity I was born with?

Those who call me fearless, actually separate me out. They other me again. They look at me differently. They still think it’s solely my work to rise above the fear, hatred and violence that permeates everyday within our social fabric. And they make it my job to save myself from the society that has largely been designed and driven by the privileged, majority community.

American writer and civil rights advocate James Baldwin once said, “We've yet to understand that if I'm starving, you're in danger. People think that my danger makes them safe. They're in trouble.” It is vital that the good-intentioned folks from India’s majoritarian, upper-caste, privileged communities, recognise that.

To call me fearless, you must first admit of being afraid.

The podcast I run brings conversations filled with resilience, but also joy, laughter, warmth and most of all, a sense of community that can lift our hearts. I do what I do because it is an act of self-preservation in the face of senseless annihilation. If despite listening to stories of Muslim women championing their lives and rejoicing in their journeys, one still thinks that what I am doing is ‘fearless’ then one needs to introspect, why do they think so? What are their fears? And, what is stopping them from being fearless?

To borrow Baldwin’s phrase the moral bankruptcy we find ourselves in will not be redeemed by patting the backs of those who call it out. It might only be salvaged when each one of us recognises our part in doing so. I refuse to be a fearless model of the well-meaning, left-leaning liberal Indians. I do not need saving, we all do.

When we begin doing the work of facing our fears, we overcome what holds us back from recognising our own part in oppressive systems.

So, next time, before you compliment me or any other marginalised group for “being courageous or fearless” for speaking about their identities, think about why you use that word. If one can overcome this mental block, one might begin to see their role and possibilities of collective work, empathy, joy and liberation. Perhaps that is the way we save each other too.

When we see flowers growing amid barbed wires, our job is not just to praise the flowers, our job is also to cut the wires.

Mariyam Haider is an independent writer-researcher, spoken word artist and producer & host of Main Bhi Muslim podcast. Her writing has appeared in Scroll, Kontinentalist, Asian Review of Books, Centre for Feminist Foreign Policy, AWARE, Livemint, Mekong Review, among others.

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On a surprise visit home, I found my home-town Dehradun splashed in one colour - the orange in triangular Jai Sree Ram flags mounted atop shops, cars, houses, trees, temples, and almost every crossroad I drove from the airport to my parents’ home. As the inauguration of the Ram Temple in Ayodhya had only happened a few days ago, the scenes were not surprising, but the irony lay in these representations overshadowing the Republic Day colours. I only saw the tricolour fly high at airports and in the hands of security personnel at Delhi airport waving it to the tunes of AR Rahman’s Vande Mataram.

The moment I got home, my sister’s cat began perambulating around me, sniffing and ensuring that it was a familiar scent. We sat down for tea and rusks, with questions on my sudden visit and my mother reading my heart saying, “you were missing home and winters.” I nodded as I chewed on the tea-dunked roasted biscuits. Later, I wore my sister’s hoodie, pulled up my socks quite literally and sat in front of the heater next to Mum, while the cat found his way to fit himself between us. We had palak chicken and daal saag for dinner and discussed the new pracheen mandir re-instated at the intersection near our home that had week long celebrations, which only culminated on 22nd January.

The following day, the gardener came on his cycle bearing the Jai Shree Ram flag. The sun was warming every inch of the garden gone cold in the wintery night. Fresh daisies were blooming and the litchi tree had been bearing new leaves. Dad and I later went to buy some jalebis and samosas. At Chanchal Dairy, we were greeted with sights of imartis, boondis among other local delights. Dad asked me to tell the confiseur to make jalebis small and crispy. The guy smiled and later offered me one from a fresh batch. The hot sugar syrup laden jalebi made a nice crunch as I bit into it, and immediately melted into my mouth. He smiled and said pointing towards my father, “Uncle bohot saaloein se aatey hain yahan.” Of course he would not disappoint a regular customer.

The afternoon was spent in the company of a dear friend, while we drove through town, talking and catching up with each other. She honked loudly at an Innova driver who had overtaken from the left, and I was calm knowing she had a mata ki chunni tied to her mirror. (My Dad used to hang a pendant with Allah written in Arabic on his car’s mirror, but he hasn’t hung anything since that pendant broke). We drove past Dehradun’s Astley Hall and took a turn left into New Cantonment Road to find almost the entire street decked in Jai Shree Ram flags, from tea stalls to houses. Not a single Indian flag could be spotted. She later dropped me home and Amma packed her a box of zarda that was prepared to celebrate Hazrat Ali’s birth anniversary a few days ago.

Yesterday, my father and I went to drop my sister at the inter-state bus terminal, and 10 minutes into the trip, my sister realised that she’d left her water bottle at home. Luckily, a cousin brother was home and we asked him to bring it over. While we waited for him to come, on the opposite street, a middle-aged woman was watering her plants in a garden outside her home. Her oasis, outlined by a waist high hedge, and possibly two mango trees growing along other plants. The single storey house was well-maintained, had a solar geyser installed on the roof, a yellow sweatshirt drying on the clothes’ line, and two Jai Shree Ram flags hoisted on the roof and boundary wall.

What’s common between a bowl of zarda, a ginger cat, piping hot jalebis, childhood mate’s down jacket, and daisies growing in Amma’s garden? Wrong answers only.

Mariyam Haider is an independent writer-researcher, producer & host of Main Bhi Muslim podcast, and spoken word artist creating works on feminism, culture and society. Her writing has appeared in Scroll, Kontinentalist, Asian Review of Books, Centre for Feminist Foreign Policy, AWARE, Livemint, Mekong Review, among others. You can connect with or follow her work on Instagram or LinkedIn.

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A few weeks ago, Vogue India’s features editor, Sadaf Sheikh shared a story on her Instagram profile about her hijab-wearing mother’s experience. “People don’t greet me with the same warmth they used to. It’s like they’re scared of fraternising with the enemy,” her mother said.

Reading this, reminded me of an episod…

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“Bawloein wali baatein mat karo.” [Don’t talk like crazy people]

“Paagal ho gayi ho kya?” [Have you gone mad?]

“Stop behaving like a child.”

In countless familial and interpersonal arguments, I’ve heard such phrases being passed at me, or others in the family, simply to disregard an opinion. These statements interject a conversation and deem an opinion …

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A few nights ago, my parents and I were taking an after-dinner stroll in our neighbourhood and I broke into a little dance. A tune came to my mind and I began swinging my arms lightly. We had only walked a few steps when my mother asked me to stop doing so.

Growing up, I have countless memories of brea…

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“Why, because you went there? I have no intentions of following in your footsteps.” Wednesday Addams

I rewatched Tim Burton’s ‘Wednesday’, having binge watched it the week it released. The show as its name goes is about Wednesday Addams - the older child of Morticia and Gomez Addams. Wednesday’s not just someone who has a darker view of life, enjoys ideas of torture, but is also a teenager going through adolescence. Her relationship with her mother is what sets the stage for everything’s that to come to Nevermore, and the show offers a few lessons of an evolving mother-daughter relationship. (Spoiler alert)

I used to watch Addams Family on CartoonNetwork (90s kids will understand what I’m saying). Each 20 minute something episode was about the family having a new situation to deal with but not without humour, eccentricity, excitement and above all a difference.

Every member of the Addams Family had an innate sense of acceptance for each other’s idiosyncrasies, and it was most visible between the parents and their children. When Pugsley wanted to blow the house up, Gomez would be disappointed because his son did not have the most powerful dynamite. When Wednesday had a new plan to chop her brother’s head off, the parents were joyous attendees to the guillotine.

To any adult watching such acts on children’s screen might scream murder, but something about them was so endearing that you couldn’t not watch them. I now realise for me, it was simply the degree of acceptance and love that the parents showed to their kids, for being, kids. They were not expected to behave like other kids, were not compared to them or made to feel different. On occasions when the ‘normal’ people tried to sabotage the Addams kids’ activities, the parents gracefully helped derail those plans but also forgive instantly.

In Burton’s show, this kind of acceptance is most visible in Morticia for her rebellious, morbid-natured daughter.

Forced to change schools and worst of all made to attend the one her parents did, is extremely upsetting to Wednesday, a typical GenZ kid who refuses to be burdened by their expectations.

Wednesday’s spiteful towards Morticia, and the mother understands this as part of raising her teenage daughter. One sees glimpses of unconditional love that she has for her but refuses to acknowledge them knowing that Wednesday does not like public display of emotions around her.

When Wednesday finds out that Thing has been sent to keep an eye on her, she not only ensures that it becomes her partner-in-crime but also confronts her parents for undermining her capacity as an individual. They both swiftly understand and acknowledge that they crossed a line.

Time and again, Wednesday goes back to her mother’s days at the school, feeling like she is constantly walking in her shadow. She finds it ignominious and promises to wade into deeper waters to find her own path. Morticia who has always understood that, reminds her, “Wednesday, you’re such a brilliant child, but sometimes you can get in your way.”

Morticia’s wisdom offers Wednesday a sense of grounding and belonging, despite their circumstances. The mother is quick to forgive. The daughter is quick to praise. They remind each other the joy of owning oneself, even if it comes with mistakes and flaws.

Morticia at one point apologises to Wednesday, “I’m sorry I couldn’t make you feel comfortable in sharing this with me.”

This is a drastic shifting point, which establishes the rebuilding of their relationship. I felt seen and heard as a teenager when Morticia spoke these words, making me wonder, how quickly and easily a lot of emotional baggage can be released if only parents see themselves as flawed beings and not super humans. Our society makes it very challenging for parents to live in the comfort of making mistakes, the privilege of being humans, and the greatness in being humble.

Reminds me of these beautiful and poignant words by Khalil Gibran:

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

If you’ve watched Wednesday, do let me know your thoughts and how the show appealed to you? 🌻

Mariyam Haider is a researcher-writer and spoken word artist based in Singapore, producing work across themes of feminism and social justice. Her writings and research have been published in Midnight’s Borders by Suchitra Vijayan, Tata Institute of Cancer Research, Scroll, Asian Review of Books, Centre for Feminist Foreign Policy, Livemint, among others.

Mariyam produces and hosts ‘Main Bhi Muslim’ podcast, which offers a space to people from the Indian Muslim community to share their experiences.

She is the researcher of former FT journalist James Crabtree’s ‘Billionaire Raj’ (2018), and science journalist Angela Saini’s upcoming book ‘The Patriarchs’ (2023).

You can follow her work on Instagram or LinkedIn.

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My parents, siblings and I took our first family vacation earlier this summer. This trip was a major feat for us considering my father’s long-journey with cancer and its after effects on his overall health. For those unfamiliar (which might be most of the readers), here’s a link to my write-ups documenting his j…

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It’s 2.07 pm, on a Thursday afternoon in May. The year is 2005, schools are closed, Dehradun’s heat has nearly hit its peak, and dust storms have begun frequenting our lawns. The menacing clouds bring respite from the dry heat along with the powerful gales that threaten to empty the heavy-mango laden trees of their fruit. As kids, we rejoice in the sudden change of weather, while running to pick drying clothes from the line. Erratic power cuts, disco lighting in the sky and inside our homes, loud banging of doors and windows - all play orchestra, while we await nothing in particular. Summer vacations have officially begun.

It’s 2022, and earlier this week, I witnessed the same phenomenon, this time with the addition of a gushing Gulmohar tree outside my parents’ home playing muse to the enchanting wind, while I used my smartphone to capture this effervescent moment.

I am home and reliving my summer vacations.

Author Eudora Welty once wrote:

The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order, a timetable not necessarily — perhaps not possibly — chronological. The time as we know it subjectively is often the chronology that stories and novels follow: it is the continuous thread of revelation.

Summer vacations have always been an occurrence limited to one’s years as a student. During my undergrad years in Delhi, I was always home for summers, but with a dread of missing out on life, as apparently that was taking place where college was. Over the years, as I moved out of the country and returned on several occasions, summers were short, time-bound, with a return ticket in hand. But above all, there was a sense of faint dread that accompanied each visit. That perhaps with each passing year, this holiday would be the last, because big life decisions, lifestyle changes and moves would come in the way.

And that did happen.

Much has changed - for starters, I’m no longer in school and do not officially get two months off every year. My parents have grown older, and siblings have different schedules and routines. My grandparents are no longer alive. My sister has a cat. The mango tree has grown older and the lychee tree no longer bears a lot of fruit. The Mussoorie range is not visible from home anymore, thanks to the residential towers that have besmirched the view. Power cuts are manageable. The heat waves are longer. The streets are noisier.

And yet, somethings are simply the same, like placed inside a time capsule. The afternoons in my bedroom are quiet with only the steady purring of the ceiling fan. Two large windows with iron rods and mesh net adorn the room and offer just the perfect daylight to catch a siesta. A motorbike, kids hurling stones at the mango tree, azaan and gurbani punctuate at different intervals. I lie in my bed, working and then pause to reflect the exactness of these moments with summer vacations in my former years.

In essence, summer vacation is a cumulation of moments and emotions that I have paid attention to, recognised how they nourish me, and worked towards recreating them.

As a woman in my 30s, I feel relieved writing this, knowing that summer vacations can always be here. That my choice of walking away from patriarchal expectations and circumstances in my 20s, has given me time as an adult at my parents’ place. There are expectations to meet, but those have been set by me and not someone else. I am home for some time, before I return to my life as an artist, a community builder, a corporate professional, among other things. This summer vacation does not end when school reopens, rather when my heart is full.

While I am home for a short while, the magnitude of its joy far surpasses the time spent here. Identifying such aspects of my childhood and incorporating them into adult life brings me joy, confidence, and clarity to forge ahead.

As the dust storms gather, I make short videos as vain attempts to capture some of these aspects and keep them in my treasure trove of memories. Like a character out of Ruskin Bond’s stories, summer vacations are unequivocally a trademark of one’s self-hood. They are the reason old board games can be dusted and played (along with daily Wordle), new work stations built, personal boundaries readjusted, late night ice creams resumed, future plans discussed, and challenging conversations convened within the comfort of one’s childhood home.

Summer vacations are being relived as an adult, despite the adult life.

Mariyam Haider is a researcher-writer and spoken word artist, based in Singapore. Her work and other writings can be found in the About section.