Names
In traditional Arab culture, your name is your paternal lineage. For example, Sarah, daughter of Muhammad, son of Omar, son of Abdullah, and so on.
When I was a kid, my favorite thing to do was sit by this grand portrait of my mother’s family tree and trace its branches: I would start with my funny uncle Muhammad, brush over the leaves honoring our Ahmeds and Khalifas, and then arrive at the memory of my grandfather Isa and stand upright in deference, his name still commanding respect even in passing.
I would come back to this tree every day, but as hard as I tried, I could not find my mother’s name. I learned to count higher and to read faster in hopes of finding an image that reflected the world around me, one that was filled with the voices and figures of the women who commanded it and who held my hand to guide me as I navigated it. However, it wasn’t long before I realized that this would be a reality left undocumented—that people would forget about my mom one day, and that I too will eventually be forgotten.
I ran to my mom in tears that day because I was scared that people would not remember me, and she told me not to worry because she would never forget me. So I asked her what her great grandmother’s name was, and she said she could not remember.
When I was in elementary school, I heard someone call my mother by the name Umm Saad (Mother of Saad, my younger brother, who is the eldest son). I was very confused and a bit offended: Why not Umm Mneera (Mother of Mneera)? Because gender-based distinctions were not imposed on me as a child, the idea that that I would be treated differently from my brother because I was a girl was the most foreign concept to my younger self (which is pretty ironic given the environment I was in). For most of my childhood, I was in my own little world—and for the longest time I did not want to reconcile that with the reality of the environment I was living in. I lived by imagining what was possible, undisturbed by limitations I did not yet know would come to exist.
Today, in most places in the Middle East, “revealing” your mother’s name is considered a huge taboo. This video was taken only two years ago.
Sixteen years ago, I asked my mother what her great grandmother’s name was but she could not remember. By failure of memory, an entire history and lineage were practically gone.
I asked everywhere and everyone but unfortunately could only go as far as four generations back to collect my maternal lineage. So here I was: I was able to trace my paternal lineage over ten generations back, but could not even find my great-great-grandmother’s name anywhere—not in any book, family tree, or anyone’s memory. If history is nothing but a collection of memories and what is deemed too important to be forgotten, why do we remember some lives but not others?
Last year, I decided to get my maternal lineage tattooed on my right arm—and through that, I will carry with me four generations of strong women who have given life to that tree but whose names, voices, and histories have been brushed away and made invisible. But I see you, now everyone sees you, and you will never be forgotten.
اسمي: منيرة بنت ريم بنت موضي بنت سارة
My name: Mneera, daughter of Reem, daughter of Moudhi, daughter of Sarah. ◆
Contact Mneera via email.