It’s Mother’s Day. As I settle beneath our ancient mango tree, my gaze follows the joyful whirl of my Mauritian children in the front yard. Their laughter tugs at something deep within me. I clutch the handmade card they presented to me; a testament to their love, and a quiet smile blooms on my lips – a smile laced with bittersweetness.
For a mother, looking upon the innocent faces of her children, eyes alight with the pure hope of youth, is to confront a paradox. This day, I am meant to be the radiant centre, showered with affection. Yet, the truth is, that my very existence as a mother is inextricably woven into theirs. It is their beating hearts that gave rise to mine. I remember the subtle flutter, then the vigorous kicks, within my womb, each movement a silent promise of life. Despite the gruelling trials of childbirth, the sharp pains and the tears that flowed, I had never known such pure happiness as when my eyes first met theirs. Tiny, vulnerable, utterly fragile beings, completely dependent on my touch, my care, my very breath. In that sacred moment, a silent, fierce vow was formed: to shield and protect them with every fibre of my being.
And now, as a Mauritian mother, that very identity feels threatened. A soft sigh escapes me, that betrays the deep lines of concern etched on my face. What future awaits them?
Crumbs of Life
“Ankor samem?” The children’s question hangs heavy in the air. Their young faces are clouded with a visible disappointment as they gaze upon the meagre meal. I know that “dipin diber” – bread and butter – is the very soul of a Mauritian morning. Yet, the thought of offering it to them again, for what feels like the hundredth time, for practically every meal, gnaws at my soul.
I look beyond our table, and the stark reality of our island unfolds. If one were to peel back the veil of the privileged one percent, those few who never cast a shadow of worry over where their next meal will emerge, what remains is a stark reflection of dire straits. The weight of groceries has become a burden on my purse. My shopping basket now returns woefully empty. Where have the fruits and vegetables vanished? Most market stalls stand deserted. Those rare few that still boast an abundance, flaunt prices so exorbitant they gleam with an almost cruel irony.
A bitter lump forms in my throat. My children are being denied the essential nutrients for healthy growth. Even processed cheese, once a simple treat, has attained the realm of luxuries. So, tonight, it will be boiled noodles, again. An uninspired dinner that offers only bare sustenance. The next morning, I prepare the rudimentary “poor man’s meal” of “dipin diber.” My children’s whispered complaints still pierce me. Yet, I pack the same humble offering for their school lunch, tucking in their water bottles. The distress of planning dinner is pushed away, to be grappled with later. Perhaps cabbage soup, again, if luck allows. Yes, perhaps, when the day comes that I can once more afford the humble luxury of a single head of cabbage.
The Human Price of Sustenance
I am far from being a mere idler. The first breath of dawn often finds me already stirring. Even before my feet touch the floor, I can almost feel the joint aches that will inevitably plague my whole body. I look at my hands; the calloused testament of hands that know true labour. I have been dealt a harsh hand of cards and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I wouldn’t sacrifice to shield my children from inheriting this same precarious state.
The authorities love to sound their own trumpets, heralding the implementation of a minimum wage as a beacon of progress. But I stand here, rooted in the harsh light of reality, and I silently ask: pray tell, how can this measly sum truly afford my children the fundamental dignity they deserve?
As I stand at the bus stop, shrouded in the early morning mist, I shuffle my feet impatiently. The minutes tick by. Then, two buses, already packed to their bursting seams, roar past, superbly snubbing us. I know, with an almost sickening certainty, that my boss will greet me with a loud admonishment. I will lower my eyes, a practiced gesture of silent acceptance, and my mouth will remain shut. I see my own path stretching out before so many of my Mauritian children. Will this earning truly be enough to buy a humble house, to conquer the mountain of monthly bills, to nurture and feed a family? I harbour a profound doubt that the “Mauritian Dream” is truly within grasp for those of us at the lower strata. It feels like a relentless struggle; like trying to claw one’s way out of a deep well, only to slide back down every single time. Will my children, my precious Mauritian children, only ever be condemned to achieve the bare minimum in life? This question, more than any physical exhaustion, is the true weight upon my soul.
The Loss of Innocence
When I watch my carefree children, their faces alight with pure joy as they savour pickled mangoes, a quiet question echoes in my heart: how long will this fragile innocence endure? My thoughts drift to the very fabric of law and order in Mauritius. Violence, in its myriad forms, seems to lurk at every corner of this beautiful island we call home. Not just the physical scars, but the wounds of mental abuse are real.
The digital world often turns the tools of connection into instruments of harm. Social media is rife with its own hidden dangers. The spectre of revenge porn – a devastating violation of privacy and dignity weaves webs of fear and financial despair. And what truly worsens my anxiety is the reality that investigations often remain painfully slow, and conviction rates woefully low, leaving victims with little recourse and predators emboldened. This systemic weakness allows these digital shadows to lengthen, threatening to dampen even the brightest young spirits.
My children, I know with a profound certainty, will need to forge a thick skin. They will have to learn, perhaps through painful experiences, to shield themselves from predators who lie in wait in the digital and physical worlds. Bullying, in all its evolving forms – from playground taunts to relentless cyber-attacks that pursue them even into their private spaces –remains an ongoing challenge that will undoubtedly test their spirits, demanding a strength I pray they find within themselves.
The world that stretches beyond the warm embrace of our ancient mango tree is far less forgiving, than the carefree laughter that fills our yard today. My greatest hope is that my children will navigate these treacherous waters with wisdom and resilience while holding on to the flame of their innocence as long as they can.
Zombie Island
Nissa la bonto’ — the chilling that the drug scourge has not merely touched, but has taken root in every part of Mauritius. It’s tragically, transforming our vibrant island into something akin to a Zombie Island, mercilessly preying upon the unsuspecting innocence of our youngsters. It is profoundly disheartening to witness so many of our people lost in a vacant, zombie-like state, their futures stolen. This is not just an individual tragedy; it is the loss of a generation whose dreams and contributions are slowly dissolving into the haze of addiction.
Every night, as I lay my head down, I pray, with a fervent desperation that my own children are spared from this pervasive drug scourge. Yet, I know in my heart that such a prayer is rarely enough, for this is a battle not easily won. The island is riddled with predators – sly, patient figures who lie in wait, meticulously weaving their nets of deceit and addiction, ready to pounce on their unsuspecting victims. No one, it seems, is truly spared from their reach. No family is immune to the silent dread. Those ensnared in these cruel nets become shadows of their former selves, often spiralling into unproductive lives that, in turn, tragically fuel the very cycle of violence that grips our communities. Grieving family members are left lamenting not just a life, but a future that has been cruelly stolen.
My frustration burns at the apparent impunity of the “big fishes,” the architects of this widespread despair, who are never truly caught, never truly held accountable. I hear countless promises from those in power, grand declarations to curb the tide of drugs washing over Mauritius. But despite these assurances, the bitter truth is that these illicit substances seem to be everywhere. This constant anxiety weighs heavily on me. My concern, above all else, remains the protection of my children, safeguarding their innocence and their future against this encroaching darkness.
My Silent Prayer
On this Mother’s Day, my heart carries a fervent prayer for all my Mauritian children: a future rich with equal opportunities, where every aspiration has the chance to blossom. And I pray for the dawn of a day when I can witness them all, truly happy and prosperous, thriving in a Mauritius that mirrors their dreams.
Bhawna Atmaram
