My Mother
This was specially written for a "Women and Employment" Seminar, April 16-17, 1984.
My mother has a thousand dreamsthat weigh her down every dayas she dangles me in her armsthis is the song she sings to me
up-a-daisy, baby,
our kitchen's larder's empty,
when you grow up
keep clear of the lock-up
My mother knows no books, no school,
every morning she bends over the muddy rice-fields
scratching her leech-tormented legs.
Her heart often recalling
the husband who died suffering
tormented by money-lending leeches.
My mother's hands are rough and gnarledfrom carrying bricks at a building siteher face powdered by the flying dust.My mother knows no supermarketliving in her little garretthe wages of her labour being too meagre.
My mother owns no television
nor has she the chance to watch any
she never hears ministerial speeches
nor follows parliamentary reports
nor talks on how to increase the population;
she little guesses there are forums on poverty
or programmes on cookery
with recipes that would astound her.
My mother works in the factoryconcentrating hard from morn to nightthe microscope cruelly pierces her eyesclouding her vision with a layer of metal.
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My mother has not heard of basic rights
or of art and poetry.
If she's asked the meaning of investment
or of shares that promise enrichment
or about the Look East Policy,
she'll smile, and show you her porridge bowl
overflowing with cheap rice broth.
O my beloved mother
you don't quite belong in your own land.Now and then I hear my mother singher own version of a traditional pantun
siakap senohong
gelama ikan duri
leaders who lie and deceive
the people won't receive.
Usman Awang