"Enough is Enough !" uttered Yassine, an ex-classmate of mine, the other day after his repeated failures. I made his acquaintance at the early start of my first year at the faculty and has ever since remained the closest, most faithful friend to me. No sooner had the two indelible years elapsed than I joined CPR, a teacher training center. As a consequence of appenditis, Yassine did not manage to apply for the same position. He had been operated on before validating semester four modules, the thing which made him disqualified and which in the end impeded us from being together once again.
I still vividly remember the old days when I was his inspiration and he mine. We used to revise our lessons together, do homework in pairs and read nearly the same novels. He was known to have been a studious and punctual student, but unfortunately for him, luck rarely came to his rescue. And every time I looked back on his poignant, heart-breaking stories of his personal life and that of his family, I always made a great effort not to burst into tears. It was only recently did he come to know his real mother. The latter committed surrogacy because she had a severe quarrel with her husband over their livelihood. She knew a barren woman and chose to give the baby( Yassine) to her.
Two years later, the couple divorced. Yassine’s mother got married to a wealthy shopkeeper. Her only aim then was to secure her living and to live in dignity for the rest of her life. As for her son, she had never enquired after him since she got rid of him. Srangely, she was so selfish that it never broke her heart to have left him stranded. As regards Yassine’s father whom he has never seen or heard from, he went abroad and never came back. He knew very well what he did. I was stunned to learn from Yassine that he has never seen his father. He is disinclined to, anyway. I always listen to Yassine with interest while he is recounting these true stories.
“ I am the unluckiest man in the world,” he said to me a few days ago. As I learned more about his life, I became more and more sympathetic. It is so shocking that his foster mother died when he was six. At the time, there was only his foster grandmother left. She was the only one to raise him, he said. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. As a child, he did not suffer as much as he does now due to the fact that he was not aware of what was going on during his childhood. He was brought up and registered at school like any fortunate child. However, with time, he has become self-conscious about every single part of his life up to now.
Recently, Yassine came home a failure again, he said. This time, no matter how hard I tried to inspire him to redouble his efforts for next year, he faltered and said, “ now, it is over”. He has done his utmost to succeed so as to become a teacher, but in vain. I was then at a loss as to what he should do as an alternative. All his efforts have come to no fruition. And it was at this point when he began to reveal all his secrets about his excruciating experiences as both a foster child and a desperate student. When I was his classmate, he never dared to divulge them to me. But now that he had no other trustworthy friend except me, he thought me the ultimate resort. Of course, I welcomed the idea and worked together hard to make this newly-shared trouble halved.
He added that when he paid his real mother a visit, she was indifferent to him and warned him not to inform her new husband that he was her son. She appeared pretentious about so many events in the past, such as when she stressed that it was not he fault but her ex-husband’s. My friend Yassine shrugged his shoulders from time to time and turned a deaf ear to all that she told him. He paid her a visit only because he was forced to by his foster grandmother. And had it not been for the latter, he would have put an end to the life of his real mother, he said to me. I was sure that my friend would never do so because of his warm-heartedness and forgiveness.
One day, he assured me that it was the last time he would ever visit his real mother. Six weeks later and to Yassine’s utter surprise, he was informed that his real mother had given birth to a severely handicapped child. He then knew that Allah had partly punished her on earth. Henceforth, he rarely mentioned the history of his origin to me. He had made up his mind not to enquire into it any more. He was not going to enquire after his real parents’ lives either. From that time on, all that mattered to him was to find a noble job, settle down, and live peacefully for the rest of his life. “ I have got wearied of this life, ” he complained to me last week.
Yassine’s likes are countless, and while putting pen to paper, all of a sudden I remembered a poem that I wrote a couple of months ago about the difference between our personal lives, our life experiences and our family history. It runs thus:
A Difference
Everything is at hand;
Irrepressible is thus their joy;
Why not I too share the like?
Or my heart is wont to only ache.
Oh, I heard their cheers again;
Is it not high time
To seek some kind or other?
That can ease the pain.
With curly hair,
One's image is not fair.
The grunt only to bear,
And then the bane of life.
An innocent crime I commit
Or rather to me it occured;
Indisposed to propose,
Predisposed to enjoy the difference.
I still vividly remember the old days when I was his inspiration and he mine. We used to revise our lessons together, do homework in pairs and read nearly the same novels. He was known to have been a studious and punctual student, but unfortunately for him, luck rarely came to his rescue. And every time I looked back on his poignant, heart-breaking stories of his personal life and that of his family, I always made a great effort not to burst into tears. It was only recently did he come to know his real mother. The latter committed surrogacy because she had a severe quarrel with her husband over their livelihood. She knew a barren woman and chose to give the baby( Yassine) to her.
Two years later, the couple divorced. Yassine’s mother got married to a wealthy shopkeeper. Her only aim then was to secure her living and to live in dignity for the rest of her life. As for her son, she had never enquired after him since she got rid of him. Srangely, she was so selfish that it never broke her heart to have left him stranded. As regards Yassine’s father whom he has never seen or heard from, he went abroad and never came back. He knew very well what he did. I was stunned to learn from Yassine that he has never seen his father. He is disinclined to, anyway. I always listen to Yassine with interest while he is recounting these true stories.
“ I am the unluckiest man in the world,” he said to me a few days ago. As I learned more about his life, I became more and more sympathetic. It is so shocking that his foster mother died when he was six. At the time, there was only his foster grandmother left. She was the only one to raise him, he said. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. As a child, he did not suffer as much as he does now due to the fact that he was not aware of what was going on during his childhood. He was brought up and registered at school like any fortunate child. However, with time, he has become self-conscious about every single part of his life up to now.
Recently, Yassine came home a failure again, he said. This time, no matter how hard I tried to inspire him to redouble his efforts for next year, he faltered and said, “ now, it is over”. He has done his utmost to succeed so as to become a teacher, but in vain. I was then at a loss as to what he should do as an alternative. All his efforts have come to no fruition. And it was at this point when he began to reveal all his secrets about his excruciating experiences as both a foster child and a desperate student. When I was his classmate, he never dared to divulge them to me. But now that he had no other trustworthy friend except me, he thought me the ultimate resort. Of course, I welcomed the idea and worked together hard to make this newly-shared trouble halved.
He added that when he paid his real mother a visit, she was indifferent to him and warned him not to inform her new husband that he was her son. She appeared pretentious about so many events in the past, such as when she stressed that it was not he fault but her ex-husband’s. My friend Yassine shrugged his shoulders from time to time and turned a deaf ear to all that she told him. He paid her a visit only because he was forced to by his foster grandmother. And had it not been for the latter, he would have put an end to the life of his real mother, he said to me. I was sure that my friend would never do so because of his warm-heartedness and forgiveness.
One day, he assured me that it was the last time he would ever visit his real mother. Six weeks later and to Yassine’s utter surprise, he was informed that his real mother had given birth to a severely handicapped child. He then knew that Allah had partly punished her on earth. Henceforth, he rarely mentioned the history of his origin to me. He had made up his mind not to enquire into it any more. He was not going to enquire after his real parents’ lives either. From that time on, all that mattered to him was to find a noble job, settle down, and live peacefully for the rest of his life. “ I have got wearied of this life, ” he complained to me last week.
Yassine’s likes are countless, and while putting pen to paper, all of a sudden I remembered a poem that I wrote a couple of months ago about the difference between our personal lives, our life experiences and our family history. It runs thus:
A Difference
Everything is at hand;
Irrepressible is thus their joy;
Why not I too share the like?
Or my heart is wont to only ache.
Oh, I heard their cheers again;
Is it not high time
To seek some kind or other?
That can ease the pain.
With curly hair,
One's image is not fair.
The grunt only to bear,
And then the bane of life.
An innocent crime I commit
Or rather to me it occured;
Indisposed to propose,
Predisposed to enjoy the difference.
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