I'm sorry Mama, I did not understand.

I feel like after the last post about my mama calling my bosses at CNN blocking me from going on air, I needed to share this story next. I would like to pre-apologize to all parents or anyone who I inadvertently offend. I am in no way comparing the loss of a child to that of a cat, it’s just my only barometer of (very mild) relatability. I find what I call “points of relatability” to be central to our human experience. Most people want to avoid them, especially when they relate to a population of people they prefer to “otherize”. Again in no way comparing cats to kids, but up until this point I had no point of relatability to unconditional love. When my cat-level of unconditional love hit me across the face like a frying pan it opened a layer of emotions that terrified me. Not that I was ever a cold-hearted cow.

Journalism can be damn depressing, aggravating, infuriating, a whole hot mess of really just nasty emotions, especially if like me you spend most of your time in the bowels of the aftermath of grotesque human behavior – ie war. It’s probably why so many of us have a pretty well-honed dark cynical sense of humor (at least we like to think we do).

I do have to say though it is among those who have lost everything that I’ve seen the most generosity, kindness, and compassion. A person with nothing will give you their last cup of coffee. A person with more wealth than they know what to do with won’t even donate a dollar even though you’ve made them cry.

By 2018 I decided that I wanted something at home to make me laugh. A human was a total non-starter. A dog was out of the question, I travel too much. I decided to get rescue kittens, and if you know Istanbul you know that it’s the city of cats. Of course, me being me, I don’t know how to do anything in moderation.

I trot off to the shelter, a kitten climbs the cage and meows at me so I’m like ok that’s my kitten. Then I feel guilty and take his sister and brother. From no cats to three cats. I very quickly learned that I don’t like responsability, I don’t like anything “pulling” me, I don’t like missing something. But it was too late. I fell in love with those furry creatures. They all had diarrhea and would track little poo paw prints all over my place. I walked around with disinfectant spray and a wad of paper towels. It was gross. My Lord of the Rings collection ended up in the trash. (They do have an Instagram page Poo Paws Adventures )

Bear with me, I’m getting to the part about my mama.

At the time I lived in a fifth-floor walkup with a spectacular view over the Galata tower and the mouth of the Golden Horn that spills into the Bosphorus. I had a balcony that I put wire meshing on so that the kittens didn’t fall. When they got older they would sit at the edge of the wire mesh and meow down to all of Istanbul’s street cats galivanting freely around the rooftops.

I had a horrible realization that I had created kitty Gaza. You can see the world out there but you can’t go. And so we moved into my current place, a house with a garden and the cats became indoor/outdoor. Early on when I was letting them out, Burrito didn’t come home. I lost it. I was walking the streets nonstop looking for him, putting up posters (it really doesn’t help to be looking for a tabby in Istanbul, they are everywhere).

I was obsessed, where was he, where was he sleeping, what was he eating. And in that moment I understood why my mama would drive me crazy asking me those questions. I don’t know if it’s just an Arab thing or not but right after “hi mami” it’s “Arwa are you sleeping, are you eating?”

I called my mama sobbing “I’m so sorry I never understood, I didn’t get it, I’m so sorry for all the worry I caused you. Walla (I swear) I’m so sorry.”

“Yee Arwa, after all these years why now? What happened”

“Mami Burrito is lost!” I wailed.

She hung up on me.

I cried and cried. Not for me, not for Burrito but for the well of understanding and of understanding how little I actually understand about the pain of the loss of a child.

Leave a comment

Share

Prologue: I found Burrito the next day, day 4 of his misadventure. Idiot somehow got into a locked up abandoned house a block away and appeared howling his head off at a window I had walked past probably a dozen times calling for him. Who knows how he got in here, the owner was shocked when I tracked him down and said “my cat is in your house.”

If I had known how much I would love those little morons with their stupid faces and paws I would not have gotten them.

For those of you worried about them being alone: They have a cat door that opens on their microchips. There is no litter box in the house, they go outside. Their feeder is automatic. They have a self-cleaning water fountain with 5 liters in it. They get checked on regularly. When I’m gone for long stretches I get someone to stay with them, they don’t need anything done, just a human to cuddle with. I know ridiculous, they are cats. My neighborhood grannies snitch on them to me all the time. “Arwa we saw your cats eating the street cat food.”