Childhood, often portrayed as a time of innocence and joy, can also be a period fraught with challenges and hardships. It's a phase where vulnerability to exploitation, mistreatment, and bullying can be prevalent, leaving us defenseless. Paradoxically, one of the most insidious forms of adversity in childhood is the illusion of bliss, where being surrounded by a loving and protective family and community can shield us from the harsh realities of the world. Yet, this idyllic facade can have lasting effects, shaping our perceptions and behaviors in ways we may not fully comprehend.
The notion that a blessing "immaturity" leads to a cursed maturity, and vice versa, may seem contradictory.
However, it conveys the complexity of our experiences and how they shape our paths in life. A childhood filled with privilege and comfort may shelter us from certain hardships, but it can also blind us to the realities of the world, leaving us ill-prepared for the challenges that lie ahead. Conversely, a childhood marked by adversity and struggle can instill resilience and fortitude, preparing us to navigate life's obstacles with strength and determination.
My childhood was a blend of blessings and curses, a tapestry woven with both joyous moments and challenging trials.
I often ponder why writers and achievers tend to skim over the complexities of childhood, treating it as a mere prologue to the main story of life. It seems to be an overlooked chapter, overshadowed by the more dramatic events of adulthood.
Dear readers, life is not a mere journey or a simple tale of success and failure; viewing it through these narrow lenses confines us within the bounds of Western American societal norms. Reflect on your childhood: the schools you attended, the neighborhoods you grew up in, and how you were treated by your family, teachers, and peers.
As a child, I yearned to experience my youth amidst the vastness of the desert or in expansive green landscapes. Thus, I can attest that much of my childhood was a product of my imagination. I was captivated by cartoons depicting the adventures of a girl living in the countryside with her grandfather, who detested returning to the city. Our screens were also graced by Japanese anime centered around football, with "Captain Majid" being the most prominent, along with swashbuckling tales like "Zorro." To this day, I struggle to engage with conventional films, as the animated Zorro film remains the epitome of storytelling for me.
The art of writing and performing for children is truly stunning.
I spent my childhood in South Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, and my awakening to the world began in the 1990s. In the neighborhoods of South Jeddah, children and teenagers form a distinctive community with its own set of values. Within this community, there is no room for weakness or introversion, and those who voice their grievances to parents, teachers, or other authority figures are often ostracized and considered complainers, missing out on the vibrant social experiences of childhood.
Regrettably, I fell into this category of children—introverted and prone to complaining and tears. In contrast, my older brother, just a year older than me, was of a different breed. He thrived among the bold and adventurous groups, engaging in what could be likened to children's civil wars.
I recall a specific event from my youth when my elder brother advised me against a certain route for purchasing household items, alerting me to possible enemies. Curiosity got the better of me, and I ventured into the forbidden path, only to be chased by creatures emerging from the ground, prompting me to flee as if I were racing to the ends of the earth.
I used to idolize my older brother, seeing him as a hero straight out of TV shows and movies. He would capitalize on my introverted nature and reluctance to join in activities, painting vivid narratives of the outside world.
My brother was a master at finding the loopholes in the "system" of childhood. For instance, there was a company called "Santob" that incentivized children to consume its products by offering a vibrant notebook with each juice box, adorned with enticing pictures. Completing these pictures would earn you simple yet marvelously designed gifts, making you feel special among your peers.
He diligently memorized all the supermarkets in our area that sold Santob products. Then, he would skillfully remove the stamps from every Santob box without fail, in a way so discreet that it was almost unnoticeable. All of this was done without our parents' awareness. Furthermore, he would strategically remove pages with difficult pictures and complain to the Chinese factory worker who inspected the notebooks, claiming that the ones we received had printing defects.
He would also covertly take my mom's key and conceal it, making her believe it was lost. This allowed us to embark on one of our daring escapades and return without raising any suspicion. The roads were arduous, akin to a journey through hell, yet the destination was nothing short of paradise. We would trek to the Santob company on foot, traversing a genuine desert for approximately two hours each way, all without our family's knowledge. The final demarcation between our neighborhood, which we dubbed the factory district, was a cluster of factories enveloped by the desert on all sides.
Whenever we visited Santob company, which was at least once a month, an eagle would soar above us, sparking my brother's imagination. He would jest that if the eagle were hungry, it would swoop down and snatch us, urging us to traverse the desert area swiftly. We would sprint and sprint, with the eagle occasionally closing in on us.
Upon arrival, the Santob company would warmly welcome us. They would notice the perspiration glistening on our skin and inquire about our origins, astonished. They would lead us to an air-conditioned area where a miraculous fridge awaited—the Santob fridge, stocked with a variety of chilled Santob juices, free for the taking. We would indulge in drinking and laughter, and then receive prizes as a token of appreciation for collecting all the stamps in the notebook.
Upon our return to the neighborhood, the journey back was delightful. We had imbibed and filled our bottles with the most exquisite juices, laden with our bags brimming with Santob gifts. My younger sister eagerly awaited our return to claim her share of the toys.
My older brother orchestrated the symphony of our childhood life. It was perhaps my younger brother's misfortune that he did not partake in these adventures due to his seven-year age gap. This sometimes made him feel like an outsider to us, as there were shared experiences and stories among me, my older brother, and my sister that he did not fully comprehend—the most captivating and poignant chapters of our tales.
For the initial segment of my memoir, please follow this link: