The thing about names
the subtlety of something so poignant
Someone once asked me if i knew the meaning of my name. I told them it meant ‘the one who migrates’ or ‘the one who seeks refuge’. I’ve always been curious about names. What’s in a name you ask? Well, names are important as they describe a person to me. I like finding the meanings of names and I marvel at how, sometimes, people are the living, breathing version of their names. I have a friend named Ruth, and she is the definition of her name. Another named Devi, who looks like a goddess in the flesh.
I was told my name belonged to the wife of a prophet. Later I found out that she was an Egyptian princess-turned slave woman-turned wife of a prophet-turned mother of another prophet. sigh.
I am aware of her importance in religion as ‘the wife of the patriarch’ and ‘the mother of the righteous’ (though she wasn’t mentioned even once in the holy scripture, whereas her husband was mentioned 69 times)
I didn’t find it that meaningful or of relevance. Maybe because of my lack of faith or my disinterest in religion. It would’ve been another case if she were praised for being a revolutionary, or for freeing herself from her shackles.
She was great because she was a mother. She was glorified because she was a symbol of sacrifice, of perseverance, and fertility. She was a womb gifted by God to his messenger as a vessel for another. Hajer was a handmaid. Hajer obeyed. Hajer was faithful. Hajer was patient. I was none of that nor did I want to be. She reminded me of my own mother. My mother, another unmentioned, insignificant symbol of sacrifice, of perseverance, and fertililty.
I was already tired of seeing women tied to men their entire existence. Having everything revolve around men. Their lives fueled by men, ignited by men, and then charred by men.
So I decided to find a meaning myself. One which didn’t reduce me to a vessel, or an act of commitment.
It never ceases to amaze me just how accurate my dad’s name is, Seethi, seeing how he’s always seething with rage. Of course a perfectly named father would raise a perfectly named daughter. There is another meaning to my name which means ‘flight’ but I’ve always fought. My name is Hajera because I’m both the end and the beginning of an era. The end of an era of endurance, and of echoing the sorrows of the women in my family. The beginning of a new era. My era. Add his name to the end of mine because even if it’s a new era, I still seethe with rage. I still let it consume me. I’m still my father’s daughter.
Alas! The irony. I speak of my fight for liberation, but I escape to my study when I sense my parents stir up a storm. I seek refuge in the pages of my books. I persevere each night as I try to preserve my body from self-harm. I speak of how I’m so unlike Hajer, with her devotion to her child, yet I bleed with motherly love for the little ones. Worst of all, I still let myself be tempted by men. I haven’t broken free from my father as my affection for him chains me to the same sorrows that my mother grieves. I still let men set me afire, let them watch me go up in flames of hypocrisy. I am no revolutionary nor have I freed myself, and yet I blame the matriarch for not being a symbol of liberty.
So I guess my name fits me.
I guess that’s the thing about names.
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