The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

When I think of resilience, I think of my mother. A quiet woman, soft-spoken and humble, she has spent more than 40 years in the UK yet remains a stranger to the English language and the nuances of British culture. Not because she didn’t try, but because society, with its often harsh judgement, had little patience for her efforts. They laughed at her accent and ridiculed her gentle voice, forcing her into a small shell where she chose to live through us, her children.

My memories of childhood are woven with moments where I became her voice. I’d accompany her to doctors, interpret forms, and haggle for her in the markets. She’d prompt me, asking, “Tell him if he’d take one pound,” and I’d translate her wishes with a “My mum said…” before every sentence. I became her bridge to the world outside, a role I took on without thinking twice because, even then, I knew it was one small way to give back to the woman who’d given me everything.

People used to call me a mummy’s boy, as though it were something to be ashamed of. Sometimes, even those I loved would use the term in a way that was meant to create a rift between us, as if my loyalty to her were something to question. But that kind of loyalty isn’t something that can be shaken. Those people fell by the wayside because they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do for me what my mother did, unconditionally. And, in truth, I could never love anyone as unconditionally as I do my mother. She’s earned that love a thousand times over.

She and my father led opposite lives despite being together until his passing. My dad was ill, and much of that burden fell on my mother’s shoulders. She carried his illness with her own, bearing the weight so that we, her children, could feel a little less of its sting.

Money was always tight; poverty wrapped itself around us, but my mother’s creativity shone through. She had this magical way of creating something from nothing in the kitchen. A handful of ingredients became meals, and though there were times she went hungry, we rarely knew. It wasn’t until later that I realised the toll these sacrifices had taken on her—mental battles with anxiety, depression, and physical struggles like diabetes and persistent stomach issues.

Yet, my mother found solace in prayer. It was as if every prayer she whispered was a shield over us, a silent plea for our wellbeing despite the hardships. Her sacrifices taught us resilience, her struggles became our strength, and her unwavering faith guided us, even as life pulled us in different directions. If I have any resilience today, it’s because I watched my mother face adversity with nothing but her silent, steadfast strength.

There’s a bittersweetness to loving someone who has been through so much. I know she loves me, even if life has worn her down in ways that make it hard to show. For every sacrifice, every quiet moment she endured, I carry a debt of love and respect that I will never be able to repay. Her wise words, her kind smile, her prayers—these are the gifts she’s given me, and I am profoundly blessed to have her as my mother.

Alhamdulilah, we’re doing well today, and I owe so much of that to her.