FATHERHOOD – A LABOR OF LOVE AND HEALING
Fatherhood begins for me in understanding what kind of a father I had—his strengths and his weaknesses—and how his behavior shaped our family. Mine, I must admit, did not perform his duties well. The most distinct memory I have of him physically was the smell of alcohol on his breath, the unmistakable scent of toddy. I wasn’t disgusted, nor was I impressed. Often, I simply felt the sadness in him. If Ihad any animosity, it was towards my mother. My father drank to drown his sorrow, to escape the pain, when there was not a single soul to share with; not in the holy state of Darul Iman that was. The only sense of pride my father had was his talent as a goldsmith, creating jewelry for the royal family of Terengganu. In his younger days living in Penang, my father was a golden glove prize fighter, and every now and then, he would proudly show the scars under his chin from the glove that had laid him down.
Being given up for adoption spared me from witnessing the full extent of his behavior daily. I was raised by my uncle, a man well employed and the main provider for our extended family. I felt fortunate, though I also carried guilt for the siblings I left behind, especially my twin brother, who grew up in poverty and hardship. Though this has never been openly discussed, I have always felt the weight of their envy, especially from my twin.
We never saw eye to eye. Over time, I have let go of the emotional and psychological ties that bound us, as I had had enough of being spoken to with condescension and treated with subtle disdain. I’m not blameless—I had my issues. I grew up a very angry young man. But I have learned.
As a father myself, I reflect on my children and how I was at their age. I try to guide them not through judgment, but understanding. How can I punish my son for smoking vape when I smoked marijuana and cigarettes for much of my life? I can only offer advice, caution, and love.
I have always believed that unconditional love is the highest virtue a man can offer his children. Whether or not it is reciprocated, it must be given. This is easier said than done, especially for someone who has struggled with anger and pride. But I try, daily.
To gain the respect of my children despite my failings, especially in how I treated their mothers (three of them in my case), was a challenge. I had to bow low to overcome their rightful wrath. I had to swallow my pride, destroy my ego, and serve their needs fully. Some of what I faced is too nasty to mention. But I endured it all for them.
It is my belief—my contention—that no matter how low I had once stooped in debasing my life, especially in how I treated the women who bore my children, I still hold the power to transform what was once shame into redemption. To turn shit into fertile soil, and from it grow good fruit.
In doing my best to acknowledge the wounds I caused, to soothe my children’s anger, to face their rightful distrust and heal their pain, I have begun the long work of breaking what could have been a generational curse. A trait passed from my own father, through me, and onward—had I not stopped and chosen another path, a path of faith and healing.
I do not ask for praise or even forgiveness. I only pray that my effort bears fruit—that the roots of suffering are no longer watered in my family line. That my children, and their children after them, may grow in a soil turned rich through the labor of love and healing.
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