Pinch
Orange cinnamon cake and banana bread were her favourite desserts to prepare. She would spend all day preparing her brother’s favorite meal “Mahashi”. One of the most time consuming and difficult Syrian dishes to prepare, but it was worth it. Spoiling him and putting effort into his visits were expected of her. He was more than just the oldest son; he was also someone who everybody at home feared. He’s very difficult to please, nobody in the family wanted to wrong him or be on his bad side. Years and years of physical abuse toward his own family built quite the reputation. He loves being feared, walking into every space as if he has lived there his entire life and everyone else is merely in his way.
My aunt, a few years older than my dad, would host us at her place every second weekend. She was one of the few family members who also moved from Syria to Saudi Arabia for job opportunity. My aunt and her family lived a few blocks away from us. She has two sons and one daughter. Growing up without any brothers, I wasn’t allowed or expected to play with my sisters. It was frowned upon because my family believed it would make me feminine. I wasn’t allowed to play with their dolls or with their friends. I used to look forward to going to my aunt’s place because of my male cousins, it meant that I could finally be allowed to play with toys that are meant for me. But my dad, had a difficult time letting me have friends, he never let me have my them over nor did he ever let me go over to their place. He said he didn’t respect other parent’s values and that he didn’t trust their raising skills. I was a shy kid who feared his dad to death, and I believe he liked that. It meant that I would listen to whatever he says and that’s exactly what he wanted. He feared that if I were to see that other boys can do whatever they want, that I would want that too.
As per our weekend’s tradition, my aunt asked us over for lunch. Her house is full of relatives and kids; the chatter fills every room. My dad is incredibly different when he’s around other people. He’s kind, pleasant, patient with other kids. My sisters and I are usually more relaxed at other people’s homes. Because it meant that my dad was no longer a ticking time bomb. While everyone was busy in the living area, I went over to the kitchen while my aunt was preparing food and sat on the kitchen table to watch her cook. I used to love sitting with adults and hear them talk about life. I would always pretend to be busy with a game or a book, but I was always intently listening. My aunt asks me how’s school going and what I had been up to during the week. I told her I couldn’t play with my PlayStation over the weekend and that I had been upset about that.
“Why?” she asks me
“You know you can use your cousin’s PlayStation in his room for as long as you like. Why don’t you go ahead now and ask your cousin to turn it on for you?”
“I can’t, I’m worried my dad would be upset” I answer her
She asks me “Is everything okay at home?”
I was always a bad liar; she could tell that I had been desperate to talk to someone. And she was right; I never had an outlet to whom I could talk to about what happens at home. I told her the reason why I can’t play video games is because my dad and mom had a fight during the week and my dad broke my PlayStation. He threw it against the wall to upset me and my mom. She gives me a hug and tells me that she thinks he’s going to buy me the new one, that’s why he did that. “My brother would prank us like that all the time, he is probably planning on buying you a newer one” she tells me. “Go on to your cousin’s room and play with them, don’t worry about your dad, I won’t tell him” She adds.
A few hours later, after having Mahashi and her traditional orange cake, we pack up and get ready to go home. Goodbyes are usually long and entail yet another last conversation by the door. We get ready and say one more goodbye, thanking my aunt for the feast she had prepared for us. My dad, mom, sisters and I get into the car. I used to always sit in the middle because my sisters wanted to get the window seat, and naturally because I’m the boy, I need to be accommodating and understanding. The car begins to move, and my parents were completely silent. I felt that there was tension between them. I didn’t know what was wrong, but they were both avoiding looking at each other. The moment we turn the corner from my aunt’s place, my dad looks in his rear-view mirror at me and asks, “What did you say to your aunt?”.
My heart sinks and I completely freeze. I was so terrified to look him in the eyes, I would immediately fix my eyes to the floor and shut down. Not a single movement or breath coming out from me. Seconds feel like years, my heart beating faster with every moment passing. “He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know better” my mom tells him. My dad getting angrier with each passing moment and all I can do is look at the floor of the car and fidget with my fingers. He used to hate my silence, but I couldn’t help but shut down each time. He starts to fight with other drivers on the road and furiously try to scare them off by pretending to drive into their car. My sisters start to scream; my mom is trying to calm him down. He grabs my leg with his right hand while his left hand is on the steering wheel and he twists my leg as far as he could, “I’m going to break your bones” he yells at me. My sisters and mom try to get him off me, but he wouldn’t. He lets go of my leg as other people start to investigate our car from the road, instead, he starts to pinch me as hard as he could. I kick my legs back to avoid him, but he grabs it repeatedly. Pinching my skin and twisting it. My mom and sisters screaming at the top of their lungs, the car drifting from one side of the road to another. I try to escape but I realize the more I kick, the more he’s losing control over the car. I give in and start to give him my legs to pinch. I was scared he would get all of us in an accident, so I make it easier for him to hurt me. Unimaginable pain that sends chills down my spine. I feel my skin almost bursting. We get home and I savour those moments in public, between getting out of the car and going into our home. I walk as slow as humanly possible from the car to our home because we’re in public and he won’t attack me here.
We enter the house and he’s waiting for me at the front door. He smacks me on my head; I start running into my room and he’s chasing me. My mom stops him and takes him into the kitchen; she would start an argument with him to divert his attention. I am in my room with the lights off and my door cracked open ever so slightly. I am standing right behind the door, crying with no sound or movement. My tears run down with my eyes locked on him through the cracked open door. I was so scared he would attack me again, I needed to know if he was coming. I hear my mom speak to my dad in the kitchen. “He’s going to leave you one day. He’s going to leave all of us”. “I don’t need him” my dad replies. “Maybe not now, but one day you will” my mom tells him. An hour after hearing them talk in the kitchen, I know that he won’t be attacking me anymore. His energy would usually die down after hours of yelling and fighting. I take down my pants to see pinching marks all over my legs. Some more severe than others but they’re everywhere. I remember sitting on the floor and crying in silence. No one would enter my room as that could entice my dad to come in and attack me again. I lay in bed for hours staring at the ceiling. Dreaming about a world where I didn’t have to go through this. I use my imagination and build personas in my head to escape. I picture myself grown up, confident and far away from my dad. I fantasize about a world where I don’t live in fear, a world where I feel wanted by those around me. I felt rejected by him. I was so scared of him that I would wait hours in bed until he goes to sleep. Only then I can fall asleep knowing he’s not going to rage again.
I learned early on in my life how to weaponize my presence. It was the only thing I could control. I didn’t want to be there so I would spend all my waking time daydreaming about another world, another identity, another path that I could have been taking. And of course, my mom was right. I did leave him the second I was able to. My mom’s words stuck with me throughout my life and taught me early on that sometimes we punish people by leaving them behind. And while that was helpful to my relationship with my dad, it has become a detriment to me. Over time, I used that same tool repeatedly with people who might have deserved more from me. I felt like the only way I could tell someone that I was upset with them was to leave them. I forgot that I had a voice, I forgot that I didn’t need to look down at the floor my entire life to express that I am upset or disappointed. Silence protected me as a child, but it doesn't serve me as an adult. I'm learning to use my voice instead of my absence. The marks from those pinches faded long ago, but the imprint they left on my understanding of relationships remained. I'm learning that there is strength in staying, in speaking rather than retreating. My father taught me to fear connection; I'm teaching myself to embrace it.
- Smooth tan archival paper
- 9 inch x 12 inch
- Charcoal