mother | Mahdi Ahmed

Posts tagged ‘mother’

NAJMAATTHA: THE VOICE BEYOND THE STATIC

On 3 November 1988, the distance between Colombo and Malé was measured not in miles, but in static.

I was in Colombo continuing my studies. Every day, I tuned in to Radio Maldives. The signal was faint, but whenever my mother’s voice emerged through the noise, it brought home a little closer.

Then Malé was attacked.

I knew what was happening, but the telephone lines had been cut and the radio signal had disappeared. I could not contact my family. I did not know if the people I loved were safe.

That night, I kept waking and turning on the radio.

Static.

Then, towards dawn, a signal returned.

And I heard my mother’s voice announcing that the Maldives had been saved.

To the nation, she was delivering the news.

To me, she was delivering my family back.

If my mother had gone to the radio station, I knew everyone at home must be safe. For a frightened son thousands of kilometres away, that was proof enough.

Thirty-eight years later, on the National Day of the Maldives, that memory returned to me.

My mother, Najma Hussain—affectionately known to the public as Najmaatha—received the National Award of Honour in the Field of News and Information Dissemination from the President of the Maldives for her outstanding service to the nation.

Today, the nation carried its gratitude back to her.

My mother joined Radio Maldives on 8 July 1970. She began as an announcer and rose through the institution as a senior announcer, presenter-producer, programme organiser, senior programme organiser and finally, director.

By the time she retired on 1 April 2009, she had devoted nearly thirty-nine years of her life to public broadcasting. Retirement, however, did not silence that familiar voice; she continues to lend it to private radio stations.

But job titles tell only a small part of her story.

She read the news, wrote and presented programmes, produced content and trained a new generation of broadcasters. Her programmes covered almost every part of Maldivian life—our national identity, Islamic history, fishing, health, family, youth, the environment, and Dhivehi language and literature.

In many ways, her work became a record of how a young country spoke to itself while it was growing.

She continued learning throughout her career, undertaking professional training in the Maldives and abroad. More importantly, she returned and shared that knowledge with those who followed her.

A voice can present a programme.

A mentor helps create many more voices.

My mother never served the nation in search of applause. Like so many people of her generation, she simply believed that the work entrusted to her had to be done properly.

This award does not create her worth.

It recognises what was already there.

For generations of Maldivians, Najmaattha was a familiar and trusted voice. Her programmes informed them, educated them and kept them company.

But my own history with that voice is different.

It is the voice I searched for through the static.

It is the voice that reached me when every other connection to home had been severed.

It is the voice that told me my country had been saved—and, without speaking directly to me, told me that my family was safe.

On that morning in 1988, I felt proud of my mother.

Today, I feel that same pride again.

Only deeper.

The nation may remember Najmaattha as a broadcaster, producer, mentor, director and recipient of the National Award of Honour.

I will always remember her as the voice beyond the static.

The voice that brought home back to me.

Congratulations, Mamma.

May Allah reward you for every moment you devoted to the nation, bless you with good health and happiness, and make this honour a source of pride in this life and the next.

Aameen.

MY MOTHER: THE SILENT ARCHITECT OF MY DREAMS

Every story I write began with her quiet strength.

My mother’s life is a quiet epic — full of grace, grit, sacrifice, and silent suffering wrapped in a love that speaks softly but endures fiercely. She bore life’s weight with unshakable patience, trading her own dreams for ours, never once asking for recognition.

She is — without even realizing it — the reason I became a filmmaker.

The Quiet Force

My late father served in the national defense force, and most days, my siblings and I grew up with his absence. It was my mother who filled that void — not with words, but with strength. She worked at the national radio station, juggling duty and motherhood at a time when “women empowerment” wasn’t even a phrase. Yet, she embodied it — quiet, determined, unstoppable.

She worked long hours, often coming home exhausted — but never empty-handed. Sometimes she’d bring me a Noddy book, sometimes a Tintin comic borrowed from a friend. One at a time. I’d read them with wonder, and when I was done, she’d bring the next. Those stories became my escape, my adventure, my first classroom of imagination.

The First Tool of My Craft

One day, she bought me a small drawing book — ten sheets, a deer printed on its back cover.
It wasn’t expensive, but for our family back then, it was the price of a meal. Still, she never hesitated. Every time my book filled up, she’d find a way to get me another. I knew how much that meant, so I drew carefully — tiny figures packed into every corner of a page to make it last.

That little book was the beginning of everything.

From Tintin to Asterix to Phantom, I started drawing my own comic panels. Without knowing it, I was storyboarding — shaping narratives, building worlds. My mother had given me the first tool of my craft. She had unknowingly set me on the path that would define my life.

The Source of My Protagonists

Now that I have a son, I finally see the magnitude of her strength. Raising one child is a journey. She raised eight — and raised us well.

We grew up disciplined, grounded, and kind — because she somehow managed to hold chaos together with grace.

Even today, she’s the heart of our family. The quiet force behind every one of us.

And no wonder — almost every screenplay I’ve ever written carries her shadow. My female protagonists, whether fierce or fragile, carry her spirit. They stand tall because she stood tall.
They endure because she endured.

Lizards and Crows

Of course, even heroes have weaknesses — and my mother’s only weakness, as far as I know, is lizards. One tiny lizard can turn this strong, fearless woman into a sprinter. I’ve seen her clear a room faster than any action sequence I’ve written.

And lately, she’s had a visitor — a crow that lands on her terrace railing every evening. She feeds it regularly, talking to it as if it understands every word. I joke that it’s Dad dropping by, keeping an eye on her and all of us.

Maybe it is.

Maybe love finds its way back — in the most unexpected wings.

The Story Behind Every Story

Today, as my siblings and I surround her, I realize — she didn’t just raise us; she built us.
Every dream I chase, every story I write, began with her small sacrifices and silent strength.

She is the story behind every story I have ever told.

And when I pause between those stories — in the stillness after the words, in the quiet corners of my thoughts — I often find her.

Sitting on her terrace as the day unwinds, sunlight brushing her silver hair. The crow perched nearby waiting for its share of rice.

And I feel time folding gently, the past and present meeting in quiet gratitude.

Maybe Dad really does visit her through that crow — to see the woman who once carried everything without complaint, who raised survivors disguised as children, who turned scarcity into strength and love into legacy.

Some stories are written on paper. Others are written on hearts. Hers is written on mine.

For my mother — my first story, my forever inspiration.

Happy 80th.