The Mother

In the 80's, I have heard of the news of the death of two cousins I've never met. They were brothers, and were involved in the underground movement trying to fight an oppressive regime. For that they were brutally tortured and murdered. In my young mind, I couldn't conceive of how unjust, how cruel the world can be. In my young, idealistic mind, they were heroes - heroes who fought and paid for the cause they were fighting with their lives.

Then I came across this poem, written by Padraic Pearse who was himself executed along with his brother for their involvement in a failed attempt to free Ireland from its oppressor. This poem, a prayer actually, is from a mother's perspective mourning the loss of her sons- feeling the intense pain of losing her children, but also of realizing the great contribution her sons has given. This somehow brought another dimension of what I might have come to think of as a glorious sacrifice: the pain and the suffering not only of the martyrs but of those who were left behind.

I think of my cousins' mother: how she must have felt the heart-rending, gut-wrenching lament of losing her sons but also the pride that her sons fought a good fight. I've met their mother, my aunt, a few times since then, and I have come to admire her quiet strength and cheerful disposition inspite of the pain no mother should ever feel. Poignant, quietly powerful, this poem made me realize that there are human emotions, and pain in every aspect of life- be it in pursuit of a noble cause, or in the fight for whatever is right. And the sacrifices of those left behind can be as painful, and as intense as those who gave their lives for their cause.

So by way of a Mother's Day commemoration, I share this poem by Padraic Pearse. I believe that this poem was given to Rose Kennedy, mother of the slain John F. Kennedy, after the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy.

The Mother

Pádraic H. Pearse

I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing,
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow—And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.