Some are separated from a homeland they were never able to live in. Some are separated from a mother they never learned to call mother.
Today’s events were predetermined by the plans and heartfelt intentions of last week. An unwritten pact promised to break free from the shackles of a rigid routine and allow time to flow as they wished. Before reaching the predetermined location, they accelerated their cars, filled with excitement. Today, they would spend a couple of moments on their own, free from the unreasonable words of colleagues that would momentarily corner Khalid. Thomas Arnold wouldn’t rush to seek refuge in smoke to suppress his growing anger either; he had almost quit smoking, but had recently been seen frequently slipping into the smoking zone. The sensitive issue left no room for liberation. The university’s invisible decorum trapped him in silent caution. While Khalid’s patience fascinated him, he failed to stand in that circle himself.
In recent days, TV broadcasts had been incessantly covering Hamas’ so-called “Operation Al-Aqsa Flood”. Under its pretext, most of the colleagues of their department had suddenly turned into unbearable advocates of Amnesty International. It was challenging to endure the one-eyed behavior of the learned when they acted like blind people. . It could be accepted if they were students. Those whose understanding extended only to the significance of the news, rather than written history, seemed unable to provide honest opinions. Colleagues pointed fingers at the one-sided criminality of Hamas and their heinous recent attacks. Both Khalid and Thomas were by no means supporters of that attack. Their questions were straightforward: why was there a need for an attack today? Did the power brokers in world politics bear no responsibility? Why were the people of a stateless territory carrying a seventy-year-long bloody history? It was a lamentable tale of a stateless king and subjects.
Today’s journey for Dr. Khalid Hossein, starting from the Yarmouk camp in Syria, began with deep sighs, hidden tears, and streams of loss. When he fled for his life with his parents and siblings, he was just a child, unaware of what a country was or what it meant. He learned about his homeland from his mother’s incessant stories. His father’s sighs of unemployment were intertwined with dreams of their village home and the scent of hard-working days in the olive groves. The tales of his older siblings were also locked in the soil of that land, where they had left behind countless joyful fragments of life: friends throughout that life, the sky for flying kites, broken garlands, and colorful stones of hidden treasures. The treasures were left behind in a bundle, tied in a cloth at the base of the bent date palm near the backyard well. Listening day in and day out to the stories of a lost country, a permanent impression of that land had settled somewhere in his mind. Just as his refugee family carried the map of Palestine close to their chests, a similar map had somehow embedded itself in Khalid’s heart.
Perhaps that was why Joseph had written his son’s past in the diary. He seemed to know that one day, a deep yearning would arise within Mohim Gazi. On that day, if he wished to travel to Bangladesh in search of his birth mother, the red-leather-bound diary would give him her whereabouts.
A country he had never seen with his own eyes, yet he carried it within him, right alongside Yarmouk. After coming of age, he learned that Yarmouk was his first refuge, perhaps not the last. His unending mental destination, an unseen country, a lost golden land—Palestine. That country remained in the letters of books and on the map hanging in their Yarmouk living room. In reality, it had no independent existence. In this universe created by God, he felt unwanted; as a refugee, a home might be the foremost requirement for him, but could anything more be possible? If anyone were to ask him where his country was, Khalid would answer without hesitation, “I come from such-and-such village in Palestine..” He added,
“I embrace a nomadic lifestyle, finding a welcoming home in a foreign land that became my own sovereign nation.”
Khalid’s words struck Thomas’s chest like an invisible hammer. He thought to himself: This man has no independent country to return to; his village is merely a mark on a map, yet he carries the phantom map of Palestine close to his heart. And what about me? I have a sovereign nation, a country for which millions shed their blood and for which millions of women, like my mother, paid the ultimate price. Within the map of that independent country lies a very real, physical village called Lebutola. Yet here I am, hiding under a borrowed name, ‘Thomas Arnold,’ running away from my own blood and soil. The sheer weight of Khalid carrying a country that doesn’t even exist shattered Thomas’s carefully guarded armor in a single instant.
Quickly collecting himself, the other man chimed in, “Me too, me too! So, we are two nomads. The foreign country has become our own country after it became our own.”
The words seemed incredibly funny, and as soon as they ended, both burst into childlike laughter. One was Khalid Hossein, known as a reticent professor at Exeter University. The other is Thomas Arnold, with brown skin and a head full of black hair. He had recently joined Exeter as a visiting professor, having previously worked at McGill University in Canada. Until now, he had been sitting inside the shell of an attentive listener, absorbing Khalid’s story. He, too, tore through his seriousness and all his veils, identifying himself before Khalid as Mohim Gazi. Their shared laughter resonated in the quiet corner of the restaurant, breaking the silence only slightly. The bodies engrossed in conversation remained motionless, the tables at a measured distance from one another.
With the smile on his face once again incited, Thomas Arnold—who we will now refer to as Mohim Gazi—spoke up again, as if speaking to himself rather than delivering a narrative:
“But my story carries a twist, brother. I’m a war child, a product of the tumultuous War of 1971 in Bangladesh. Canada became my sanctuary, where the Arnold couple embraced me as their own. My birth mother, plagued by mental illness, remains a painful memory. At times, I felt the weight of shame, hesitant to claim her as my own. But as time passed, the shame dissolved, leaving only her image hanging on the wall of my consciousness. Khalid, despite the differences in our narratives, we share a common thread of displacement, finding solace as stateless individuals sheltered in foreign lands. We are passengers of fate, akin to brothers navigating the same turbulent waters!”
Within the lengthy discourse, somewhere along the way, his smile had faded. The way dark clouds obscure the sun, erasing its marks from the sky, Mohim Gazi’s smile vanished, leaving a melancholy shadow on his face. He had begun speaking lightly, without showing any need to rush to the source of his grief. His name and title did not match his appearance, skin tone, and so on, which often provoked questions among others. He had never shown interest in revealing his birth story to anyone outside the close circle of his personal identity.
Under the pull of an invisible thread, Khalid first, and then Mohim, laid their hearts bare. Their friendship was not long-standing, and it felt surprising even to Mohim Gazi to open up like this after such a short acquaintance. Yet, uttering those words brought a sense of relief to both. Attempting a faint smile, Mohim Gazi tried to dispel the heaviness in his throat, but his weary eyes refused to cooperate. At that moment, they were a landing space for somber clouds.
Khalid too pretended that something had caught in his own eye.
Forgetting all decorum, two mature, refined men suddenly grew desperate to hide their vulnerability. One hurried toward the restroom, while the other abruptly felt an urgent need to search through his phone’s contact list for a number.
***
That day, upon returning to his apartment after chatting with Khalid Hossein, Mohim Gazi dreamt. He saw a large house with a spacious courtyard, where a woman sat. Her body, draped in a traditional sari, was clearly visible, but her face was blurred. He recognized the name of the village—Lebutola. The earthy smell of that village was ingrained in his heart. He woke up restless, unable to see the woman’s face in his dream. He was certain of the woman’s identity, having seen her in dreams many times before. The birthmark slightly above his left thigh was a clue to the woman’s identity, embedded deep within his bones.
Desiring to see the face of his birth mother, Mohim Gazi searched high and low for his beloved red leather diary but could not find it anywhere. With a heart full of thirst, he spent almost the entire night sleepless. He could clearly remember that he had taken the diary with him from Canada. Inside it was a picture. That red leather diary was very dear and precious to him. Wherever he went, he never forgot to take it with his important belongings. The diary belonged to Joseph Arnold, whom he called “Dad.” For although he had not forgotten his mother tongue, he never was able to call Joseph “Baba”(‘father’). Similarly, he could never address Catherine as “Ma” (‘mother’).”
The craving for that call beckoned him like a shadow. Joseph gave him the diary before his death. It contained all the details about where he was adopted from in Bangladesh, along with the name of his biological mother, Mariam Begum, and the name of the person who provided him with paternal identity, Muktar Gazi. There was also a black-and-white photograph.
There was no concealment about his upbringing in Mohim Gazi’s relationship with his adoptive parents, Joseph and Catherine Arnold. They had explained it in a way that an eight-year-old could understand. No one has control over their birth, they told him. God surely has something planned for you that will bring you good. Though his name was changed to Thomas Arnold, as per the norm, Joseph and Catherine had never forced any religion upon him. He grew up as a free man without a religion. Outside of that, he felt that the labor Joseph and Catherine put into ensuring their son’s establishment had not gone in vain. He had managed to establish himself as successful and accomplished. What would happen if he had not succeeded in this life? Khalid’s question lingered unanswered. It wasn’t that the answer was unknown to him. He believed Khalid knew it too. A failed person bears the burden of a failed life forever. A successful person can shake off failure like dust and move forward. Can they truly? Yes, they can. He didn’t know how successful others were, but he would be; that inner confidence brought him peace.
Perhaps that was why Joseph had written his son’s past in the diary. He seemed to know that one day, a deep yearning would arise within Mohim Gazi. On that day, if he wished to travel to Bangladesh in search of his birth mother, the red-leather-bound diary would give him her whereabouts. Once, he considered it crucial to wipe away the trauma of his past and integrate into a new life, no matter how grotesque that past had been. He succeeded in this, thanks to two wonderful individuals. He gained a name, education, and fame. Yet, there remained an emptiness that often transformed him into a beggar stripped of all dignity.
Memories would violently drag him back to the courtyard of their home in Lebutola village. A housewife seemingly immersed in domestic chores would abruptly forget her past and present, transforming into an entirely different soul. A hazy yet agonizing memory would rob her of all sanity, trapping her in an unbearable void between consciousness and delusion. She seemed to seek a twisted relief by venting all her rage and hatred onto an eight-year-old boy. Yes, in those terrifying moments, that was the woman the young Mohim Gazi bore witness to. Those days still live vividly within the folds of his memory.
Now, it no longer pains him to understand why his presence would drive her madness to new heights, or why she would destroy things and inflict wounds upon herself. Immediately after his birth, Muktar Gazi had sent Mohim to live with a distant relative—a sister. However, when she unexpectedly passed away, Muktar found himself in a predicament and was forced to bring the boy back home. It was arranged so that Mohim would ideally never cross paths with Mariam. But living under the same roof without ever seeing each other—was that even possible? They would occasionally bump into each other. When she was lucid, there was no trouble. But whenever he encountered Mariam during her bouts of amnesia, the day would end in disaster. The boy would hide, fearing for his life. It baffled him and filled him with resentment—what kind of behavior was this? Just because he was someone else’s child, did he have to endure such insults and beatings? Muktar Gazi’s house was never short of day laborers. Some of them would slyly whisper to him, “Don’t you know that mad woman is your mother?” After all, who would truly care for a child born out of the ashes of war? To them, he was merely a bastard—a Jawra. Such harsh words didn’t fully register in the little boy’s mind at first; he assumed they were merely teasing him. Yet, almost every day, someone would repeat the same taunt. At first, it didn’t bother him, as he was ignorant of what the word ‘Jawra’ meant. But the day Mohim finally learned its true meaning, he vanished from the house. For hours, he hid inside the mosque, filling his stomach with nothing but tap water. The revelation of such a painful truth about his identity overwhelmed him so deeply that death felt like a better escape. Fortunately, it was a Friday. In a Muslim-majority country like Bangladesh, Friday held a profound religious significance as the weekly holiday—a day when even those who missed their daily prayers would gather at the mosque for the special Jumu’ah prayer at midday. After prayers, Muktar Gazi spotted Mohim on his way home and managed to bring him back with much persuasion.
On the way back home, Muktar Gazi candidly confessed to the young Mohim that he was forced to marry Mariam Begum under the harsh pressure of circumstances. “When society was turning its back on war-affected women like her, I, having just returned from the war, stood by the memory-impaired, pregnant, and helpless Mariam out of a sense of duty. I provided the social legitimacy her child needed. I married her, yet I could neither love her nor truly accept her as my wife in my heart. Due to her amnesia, the present is the only reality for her, and she considers herself the sole mistress of my household.”
Meanwhile, understanding the gravity of the situation, Muktar Gazi quickly took action. It became clear to him that the boy had no future in this house. He sought advice from his influential relative about what could be done. Through the relative, he discovered an NGO that arranged for such children to be placed in childless families. Through that connection, Muktar Gazi found the Arnold couple. When they took Mohim to Canada as their adopted son, Muktar Gazi wished fervently that the boy could at least spend some time with his mother, experiencing even a little of her affection one last time. Strangely, on the day of Mohim’s departure, Mariam Begum was completely normal. She lovingly asked questions about who Mohim was, where he came from, and so on. She took care to feed him well, showing no lack of affection. When it was time to part, Muktar Gazi could not bring himself to say, “Give the boy a last hug and a bit of affection.” He restrained himself, fearing it would be inappropriate. However, seeing the boy standing stiffly, he couldn’t help but say, “son, she has taken such good care of you all day. Aren’t you going to give her a hug? You should bless her with a kiss. What’s there to be ashamed of? She’s your mother.” Suddenly, the boy recoiled in disgust that day. With a hardened expression, he quietly stated, “That woman is not my mother!”
Due to his age, it may not have been possible for him to fully comprehend everything at that time. Much later, Muktar Gazi’s words pieced together like lost fragments, bringing his past life into clearer focus.
Thoughts of the past often haunted him, but he had always brushed them aside. Yesterday, however, Khalid Hossain’s words seemed to knock forcefully on the door of his consciousness. Indeed, a woman who sacrificed everything for her nation’s freedom deserved nothing less than absolute reverence. Why had he spent all these years denying the tears and blood of his own mother—the very foundation upon which his freedom rested? As he weighed Khalid’s words, a burning regret consumed him. Unlike Khalid, who faced his truth with raw courage, he had spent a lifetime deceiving himself, burying his identity to escape the pain. But a person cannot forever deny their homeland or their own blood. His conscience, long suppressed, now revolted against him. The painful truth had merely been buried, waiting for the right spark to resurface. Otherwise, why had he cherished Joseph’s diary like a sacred treasure? Why had he searched so frantically for it? What else could explain the restless storm brewing within his soul?
The noise of the day did not reach his multi-story apartment. Yet, sweet sunlight had already claimed the balcony. Standing in the soft light, on the threshold of a new day, Mohim Gazi made a decision; he would travel to his birthplace, Bangladesh. He had missed the opportunity to embrace his deceased mother. He would not let slip the chance to at least visit her grave. He would touch the tomb of his warrior mother and cleanse himself, leaving no mark of shame.
