By Howard Feldman
Maya was born looking like she could do with a healthy dose of Botox. Crinkled and a bit squishy, she had the look of a woman in her 80th year rather than her 80 th minute, which was her age when we met her. But we didn’t mind. We said she was beautiful. And we meant it. Because despite her wrinkles, to us she really was.
Maya Eliya is my granddaughter.
I recall a few years ago going to a lecture with my late father. The speaker, a theologian, an older man, explained what it means to be of his age. He had recently lost his remaining parent and spoke about the concept of being the next generation closer to death. It sounded morbid to me until he explained the privilege of being in that position.
He described it as though he was standing on the summit of a mountain. On the one side he sees the generations passed. His parents, his grandparents and even his great-grandparents. And on the other side is his children, grandchildren and maybe even great-grandchildren. “My position is so unique,” he explained, “that I can see the reflection of my grandparents in the eyes of my grandchildren. I see the personality quirks of my parents in my children, and with that I get a glimpse of what it means to be part of the magnificent species and of history.
I don’t recall worrying about the state of the world when we had our children in our twenties. I have no idea if it was our age or the age, but for us this was never a consideration. To be honest, I don’t know if this is a factor today, but given the global threats, the assaults on any belief system that is our own, I would worry for the future of any unborn child.
Particularly a female child.
I think of Maya being born into a world that isn’t quite sure of her gender. Where some might want to wait for her to decide if pink is her thing. Where she might not confidently describe her body parts lest she offend someone with different ones and where she might compete against a male in a sport because he decides he is female.
I think of her world where she is told that the choice is hers. So long as she conforms to social media’s expectation of what that choice is, and how her body weight will be weaponised by both sides of any argument.
I worry about a world that ignores sexual abuse of women and in doing so, allows it to become part of the arsenal of war. And I worry that she might lose some of her gentility so that she can succeed in a corporate world that associates leadership with aggression.
And yet Maya has the privilege of being born into a world of breathtaking innovation; a world that is seeing tremendous advancement in areas of medicine, technology, science and commerce; a world where she gets to choose whether to be an astronaut or stay at home and be a mom; whether to devote her life to charity or comedy; or whether to be religiously observant or a vegan.
Mostly, Maya has the incredible gift of being loved before she is known.
I am a young grandfather. In my mid-fifties, I have lost my parents. That means that it is me who stands on the peak of the mountain. And when I look to the one side, I see my grandparents who fled Europe in fear of their lives. And I see my parents who were born in South Africa and who took the reins from their parents to build a family. I see my wife’s grandparents who traveled a similar journey.
And when I then turn just slightly, I see our children, our two older granddaughters, and now our little Maya who might not have met those who stand on the other side of mountain, but who carry their souls in the reflection of their eyes.
Below the mountain the world is confusing, sometimes unpleasant. There is, however, absolute clarity on the top where worries fade and values matter … and where it is clear to see that little else matters as long as those little ones enter the world and are loved beyond measure.