Obsession (Zahir)

REALLY TRUE,U CAN LOVE TWO PEOPLE AT THE SAME TIME,UNTIL AND UNLESS ONE BECUMS THE “ZAHIR”

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The title of this segment is “Obsession (the Zahir),” but I would like to speak a bit about that other Zahir mentioned in the novel – the societal Zahir. As Paulo defines it: the Zahir – “a fixation on everything that has been passed from generation to generation; it leaves no question unanswered; it takes up all the space; it never allows us even to consider the possibility that things might change….All-powerful…born with every human being (it) gains full strength in childhood, imposing rules that will thereafter always be respected.” In short, the Zahir is that monster machine of social norms and expectations which grinds us beneath its wheels and either crushes us completely or, at the very least, smashes the life out of us, leaving us as empty husks of our true selves.

I am facing this Zahir in this very moment in the form of one of the very “rules” which Paulo listed: “We must never make our parents sad, even if this means giving up everything that makes us happy.” I and my daughter are all packed up and prepared to move, ready to leave behind this abysmal small town where I grew up, this constricted life to which I would not dare condemn her. The question hangs heavy in the air, like a bell ready to toll: Where will you go?

My heart knows where it wants to go. I imagine the place night and day –this splendid city and its people. I have lived there before, and although that was a very long time ago, my memory of it remains vivid. These scenes flash through my mind almost continually: I and my daughter are walking down this same street where I have walked before, only now I am not alone. She is with me, and I have someone with whom to share these simple joys. We pass in front of the market stalls where fresh fish, organic fruits and vegetables, and flowers are sold. A little further along the street, on the opposite side, is a small wine shop, independently owned, where the proprietor always wears a smile and is eager to patiently assist even the ignorant, such as myself. Next door to this is a bakery – the scent of fresh bread and delicate pastries fills the air – and another shop where gourmet cheeses are sold. Then, just a few steps further on is a small grassy park, with a fountain at its center. Here we stop and sit down on the grass to enjoy our lunch, which we have carefully gathered up from among these shops. We are not alone. There is a woman with a stroller who has paused to nurse her infant. A band of small children sit on the rim of the fountain, dipping their hands in the water and splashing one another. Their laughter rings out over the crowd that has gathered around – a mixture of workers on lunch-break, tired shoppers taking a rest, lovers who view this as a romantic place to catch a glimpse of the bay stretched out below, teenagers just “hanging out” because this seems like a “cool” place to be, a few homeless people who like it both because the cushy grass makes a great place for a nap and because they have the opportunity to partake of the leftovers of other people’s lunches. A young man with long hair, wearing a vest with flowers embroidered on it sits down on the rim of the fountain and, taking his guitar out of its case, begins to play a song for us. He appears lost in time, like someone forgot to tell him that the sixties ended before he was born, but this is okay because his tune is a happy one and most – not all but most – of the people gathered around on the grass turn toward him to listen and watch him play. Soon, they begin to toss coins and bills in the case which is open at his feet. It is a fine day. The air is a bit crisp, even though this is only the first weekend of September. This slight chill makes the rays of the sun seem particularly delicious.

This is the place where my heart longs to take me – the place which makes me feel gleeful and enthusiastic every time I think about it. Still the question hangs there, unanswered: Where will you go? The bell does not toll, because I know that the only true answer will break my father’s aging heart in two. Yesterday was his seventy-fourth birthday, and with each passing year the obligation grows stronger for me, as his only daughter, mother of his only grandchild, to remain at his side, because this is what makes him happy and gives him reason for staying alive. This is a heavy burden to carry – the knowledge that you are the sole proprietor of another person’s happiness, the meaning that gives reason to their life. And yet this burden is not unreasonable according to society as it falls perfectly in line with that unspoken rule which we all know so well: “We must never make our parents sad, even if this means giving up everything that makes us happy.”

So then this brings us to the other option – a compromise. “You owe it to your father,” says one friend, “I mean, after all, how much longer will he be around? Surely you can wait to move until after he dies.” So then one finds oneself in this position where one is waiting for someone else to die so that they themselves can live. “What kind of existence is that?” I ask. And, yes, it is true, he could pass away tomorrow, or the day after we leave, but it is equally true that he might, like my grandmother, live to be ninety, or more. And meanwhile, my young daughter is growing, is becoming…. She is like a flower that needs water and sunshine in order to emerge from its bud. What about my obligation to her? How long can I possibly as her to endure the constricting, oppressive environment of this small isolated town, where there isn’t even one single decent school, where most of her beliefs, views and values are seen as “abnormal” and “absurd?” And what about my other obligation to her? The greater obligation to act as an example of how to live one’s life fully and completely – to be true to oneself, to listen to one’s heart when it speaks?

Nor am I alone in this. I am not the only person under the sun who suffers from the imposed obligation to keep one’s parents happy at all cost. My own cousin, a few years younger than I, who has never traveled at all, longs with her whole heart to leave behind this place and make a new life somewhere that is more in line with her values and her desires. She thinks not only of herself, but of her own daughter, who is a year younger than mine. When we speak of the possibility of leaving behind this place where we both grew up, leaving behind our parents, our families and everything that is “safe” and familiar, the word “opportunity” often comes up. We may not know of all the opportunities that exist out there in places unknown, but we both agree upon the marked “lack of opportunity” that exists here, particularly for young women, who all too frequently end up as mothers themselves well before the age of eighteen, young women who seldom pursue a higher education or a career of their own outside of their home and family – young women afraid to dream. So, my cousin too longs to go, to leave, to escape with her young daughter. Her burning desire for this is evident, and yet she speaks of it only in moments of complete privacy, when there is no chance that our conversation will be overheard. Even then, she speaks only in a whisper, as though she fears that the winds themselves will carry word of this secret, innermost desire of hers.

She, however, is in a different position than I – she is married, a very traditional marriage, and she must do as her husband says. All major decisions, such as where to live, are ultimately his. When they are alone in bed at night, he listens to her pleas, and even agrees that, yes, he too would like to move, yet he holds firm to his position: he will not move so long as his parents are alive. With firmness of intent, he has chosen The Compromise: waiting to live fully until someone else dies. When his parents pass away – tomorrow, or ten or twenty years from now – THEN he will take his family to live in a place that is conducive to their happiness and well-being, a place of opportunity. He has decided this because he is an “honorable” man who has chosen to honor the rules and norms of society, including the one which states: “We must never make our parents sad, even if this means giving up everything that makes us happy.”

He watches television a lot, my cousin’s husband. In fact, I never see him with his head NOT buried in some TV program, the sound blaring, everyone else in the house strictly forbidden to interrupt him, except to bring him food or drink. I look at him a bit with disdain, but also with sadness, thinking: maybe this is the way he downs out his dreams, keeps them from rising to the surface and tormenting him. This is his way of forgetting that there is anything else out there other than this little rat-maze that he calls his life. Of course, it also helps to drown out his wife’s voice, the expression of her own dreams. As he watches TV, she silently washes the dishes and cleans the kitchen. Her kitchen is immaculate. Her whole house, in fact, is spotless.

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