My Grandmother, My Abuser.

People who are from Western-European cultures don’t understand me.
You don’t know what a grandmother is.

(Trigger/content warning: Domestic abuse, Force feeding, loss of bodily autonomy.)

(Image description: a broken bridge like structure reflecting in water, in a sunny day. Photo by me.)

Because those grandmothers are not real grandmothers.
They live somewhere remotely.
They maybe see their grandchildren once a week.
Give them presents that they think will exchange love.
Those are not real grandmothers.

Real grandmothers take care of their grandchildren, while the parents go to work.
Real grandmothers are the ones who ...
I can’t even find a word in my broken English that will even particularly translate the Russian word "воспитывать" [phonetically: Vospitiviat’] the children.

I think that maybe the closest translation of the Russian word "бабушка" [phonetically: Babushka] - which is usually mistaken for grandmother is actually a "mother". They are A Mother.
There is a Russian joke that says that in Russia, the traditional family unit is two women and a child. Usually, though, they are a grandmother and a mother.
The men are working, dead, or drunk. The mother is also working, but she takes some time with the children at the evening. Sometimes there is even a grand-grand mother. She also watch the children while the grandmother works, if there is a need.
Someone has to give the child food, and be there with them while they do homework, or eat. They have to wake the grandchildren up, to make them do light morning exercise. There is a rutine. We have no word in the rutine. We must do every part perfectly.
The whole morning is a rutine, and each stem must be finished and done before the other one is done.
This includes eating.
And the children must eat everything on their plate. Regardless of what the feel like the want, can or like. Or can’t eat anymore. Yes, even if it means being late to school.
Eating is the most important thing.
Eating was my daily torture.
Eating is how I learned my body does not belong to me.
Eating is how I learned that I don’t eat for myself. I eat to please others.
Eating is how I learned that my own body and mind is an obstacle in pleasing others.

In the domestic abuse semi cult I lived, with my grandma telling me about how people who are not my family are not to be trusted.
That we will be doomed without her.
She took a central role in the family;
as a care giver, nurturer, educator.
She twisted it into something dark and totalitarian.
People around me don't even understand what a grandmother is. We come from different cultures.
How can they understand that a grandmother is a primary care giver and not the smiling person who is giving children cake and spoil them with special food?
The connection between grandchildren and their grandmothers can be as intimate as a connection with a mother or a father.

With their misunderstanding came my silence, because no one believed.
Because grandmothers don't hit children with a belt when they are late home.
She doesn't force them eat food amounts, temperature, and pace that only she finds apropriate.
She doesn't hold them in place, cornering them, and holding them, so they can't escape.
She doesn't ignore their pleads to stop, to let just breath.
She doesn't shut them up when they cry that the food tastes spoild or is painfully hot.
She doesn't threaten the children that she will feed them their vomit if they puke.
She doesn't cause them pain and distress because they don't eat fast enough. They never eat fast enough.
And she definitely doesn't do that on a daily basis.

No one dreads going home from school. Especially if their grandma is waiting home!

If what was done to me was done to a political prisoner, it was a violation of human rights.

It is not a a violation if it is done by a loving grandmother will do to her grandchild, who she loves the most.

People don't know that love and food are made out of violence.
They can't understand how scary a spoon can be.