One
of Shawushka’s employees knocks on the window of our door. The smile that was
on my face, the one from just a minute ago, seems long gone. I always like it
when she comes to visit us but today it’s different. I’m nervous and I think we
all are. The decision we will make tonight will be a hard one.
As we all gather around the table, she grabs a few papers out of her bag and asks if my mother is sure. I want to tell her that we’re not sure. I wish I could tell her that there is a solution, that there is money, power and dedication from me. I hold still because I know there isn’t and even before I can say something my mother picks up her pen and puts her signature on the papers. “Shawushka isn’t what it used to be.” She says. “We’ve helped female writers in Kurdistan, We had the first Kurdish magazine which was written by women and for women. We held seminars, helped women in need, gave computer and English courses. We were there when others weren’t but now it’s time to let another generation shine. I am sorry that I have to close the doors of Shawushka.”
Unfortunately, one of my mother’s works, or children, as she likes to call them, will close its doors. To me, and many others, Shawushka wasn’t only a cultural center. Many of my first works were published in Shawushka’s magazine. Ramdom people would recognize me from my articles in Shawushka. Even men would admit that they bought Shawushka because the topics were so good. It was our little baby (which had grown big) NGO.
I’m sorry that it had to end like this. I’m sorry that the person, up there, decided to make it hard for us to keep you open. I’m sorry you had to be the victim of that. I wish all the employees the best. Thank you all for your hard work. I will remember you, Shawushka, with a smile, from ear to ear. You were great.
As we all gather around the table, she grabs a few papers out of her bag and asks if my mother is sure. I want to tell her that we’re not sure. I wish I could tell her that there is a solution, that there is money, power and dedication from me. I hold still because I know there isn’t and even before I can say something my mother picks up her pen and puts her signature on the papers. “Shawushka isn’t what it used to be.” She says. “We’ve helped female writers in Kurdistan, We had the first Kurdish magazine which was written by women and for women. We held seminars, helped women in need, gave computer and English courses. We were there when others weren’t but now it’s time to let another generation shine. I am sorry that I have to close the doors of Shawushka.”
Unfortunately, one of my mother’s works, or children, as she likes to call them, will close its doors. To me, and many others, Shawushka wasn’t only a cultural center. Many of my first works were published in Shawushka’s magazine. Ramdom people would recognize me from my articles in Shawushka. Even men would admit that they bought Shawushka because the topics were so good. It was our little baby (which had grown big) NGO.
I’m sorry that it had to end like this. I’m sorry that the person, up there, decided to make it hard for us to keep you open. I’m sorry you had to be the victim of that. I wish all the employees the best. Thank you all for your hard work. I will remember you, Shawushka, with a smile, from ear to ear. You were great.
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