“My mother, Ali, lived a long and eventful life. The war years were defining. It was a time when she contracted polio and had to work hard just to keep up. She successfully attended homemakers school, but diplomas were never issued. These experiences stayed with her throughout her life. My mother had a great need for validation, and her self-confidence was absent.
After the war, she worked in housekeeping and met my father, Joop. They settled in Enkhuizen and had my brother, and I came along ten years later. My father worked for the railway, while my mother managed the household, turning it into a warm, welcoming and fun place. Friends were always welcome, sleepovers with mattresses on the floor were common, games of hide-and-seek in the large storage closet, and there was even room for foster children.
Everything changed when my father suddenly died. My mother was forty and had to manage on her own. During those years, she developed a strong bond with my brother, and at times, I was sidelined. She found it difficult to divide her attention equally.
It was a time of survival, of searching for stability and the sense of home she longed for. She found solace in working in social care—something she truly loved. However, grief was never far away, as her beloved son died young. This accumulated grief and its consequences were buried deep in her. Even in her later years, when dementia brought more emotions to the surface, so much remained unspoken.
She is no longer with us, but there are still loose ends, still many unanswered questions.”
