One of my friends recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy and as she expressed her lack of sleep due to him teething, I naturally started giving her advice about what to do. She stopped me halfway through and said, “how do you know all of this, you don’t even have children?”. I gave her an awkward smile and said, “that’s very true, but I have siblings.”
This conversation stayed with me throughout the day and in the back of my head, my therapist’s question echoed. “Do you know how to be a daughter? Or how to be a sister?”. It left me very uncomfortable and for the past six months, I have asked myself this over and over again. The ugly truth is I don’t.
When older siblings step into parents’ shoes
As immigrants, we often speak highly of our parents’ sacrifice. How they left their homes for the sake of their children, but we never consider the eldest daughter’s experiences, suffering and struggles.
My mother gave birth to my baby sister in 2005 and although I was ecstatic to have her home, I didn’t realise that her arrival would change my life. My mother woke me up the morning after, gave me brief instructions and left for work. Those instructions were my introduction to motherhood.
I was 12-years-old. At the time, it felt more like an honour to be given such responsibilities. My mother worked hard and would sometimes do night shifts straight after a 12-hour shift in order to provide for us. But due to a lack of affordable childcare and paid leave, my family couldn’t afford my childhood. I didn’t just experience a parentified childhood but from a young age, I also inherited the onus of stepping in wherever my parents couldn’t. This included childcare, emotional caretaking, parent-teacher meetings and managing the household.
When older siblings step into parents’ shoes, you start to learn how to make sacrifices early on in life. In high school, I always made excuses for needing the toilet, but instead, ran home to change diapers and prepare bottles of milk before making it back to class. I was thankful that my school was only a five-minute walk from home which made this a two-minute run.
Once my teachers found out about my little ‘toilet break charade’, I explained the situation and promised to work harder, but I had to help my mother out. I will forever be grateful for how understanding one of my teachers was. She knew it was wrong but after I had begged her for hours, she finally gave in.
Being confronted with servitude and eternal sacrifice
I had earned being called ‘mum’ at the age of 15, to the extent that my brothers and sisters found more comfort in opening up to me. But among my family members and within the family unit, I was confronted with womanhood that prioritised servitude and eternal sacrifice at the expense of my own well-being and self-determination.
Everything I was taught about being a good daughter was rooted in my willingness to endure. I didn’t realise I was being groomed for a lifetime of overworking myself to no avail. I felt guilty for not assisting, the type of guilt only immigrant daughters can sometimes feel. My parents left their home, family and country for me to have a better life and here I was contemplating whether I should sacrifice my teenage years them.
I was constantly reminded of my privileges. The roof over my head, clean clothes, food on the table and them paying bills. My parents didn’t know any better. I constantly felt indebted to them.
My guilt manifested itself into constant self-doubt, high tolerance for poor treatment, depriving myself of exciting experiences and anxiety about living a life of my choosing. I raised myself despite needing mothering and I carried myself throughout life. I experienced motherhood before childhood.
It is deeply rooted in a martyr complex because it was instilled in me that one day I would be compensated for my sacrifices and suffering. Perhaps, I would receive better treatment, happiness or maybe even an end to my pain. Oh boy, I was dreaming big. It never happened! I realised that I would never be awarded or compensated for all the emotional labour nor receive an apology for interrupting my progress or being manipulated into making decisions that hindered my freedom.
Swallowing the pain doesn’t improve the condition
I always question what kind of life I would be living if I didn’t have to carry this weight of my parents’ role on my shoulders? If I didn’t have to worry about my younger siblings’ progress at school, friendships, homework and developments. Truthfully speaking, I don’t know how to be a sister or daughter. I raised three children, nurtured them with emotional and practical support and serving the intimate needs of a parent. I find it extremely difficult to step outside my mother role.
My therapist once asked me, “what do you love about yourself?” and as I responded, she kept cutting me off. I was frustrated until she uttered, “everything you have said so far has been how you’ve been of service for others.” It made me question who am I beyond what I can do for others?
I have experienced the inner turmoil of navigating self-doubt, anxiety, depression, guilt and self-sacrifice, and have carried myself throughout life and every curveball; overcoming exam fails, heartbreaks, verbally abusive relationships, depression. I couldn’t rely on anyone else carrying my burden.
I still question what kind of life I would be living if I didn’t have to carry this weight? When older siblings step into parents’ shoes, swallowing the pain doesn’t improve the condition in the slightest. I am having a tough time believing that I will be redeemed by martyring myself. Will there be forgiveness at the end? Is this just another one of patriarchy’s scams? What benefits have I reaped? I didn’t even get an appreciation dinner or a plaque with words of gratitude etched into it. ‘Thank you for giving up your childhood, for always giving in to your selflessness, guilt, and benevolence’. There is no end game to martyrdom. No accolades.
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Written by Donya Taher
Illustrated by Francesca Mariama
