DUVII: Echoes of Resilience
By: DUVII ARTISTA
I am DUVII.
If you are wondering what DUVII stands for, look no further.
DUVII is a symbol and a combination of a DOVE and the number 7 in Roman.
What does DOVE represent? Throughout the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean regions, the dove attained iconic status as a symbol representing the mother goddess. Since the Early Bronze Age, the dove has held significant symbolism, particularly in connection with the revered goddess Inanna-Ishtar, associated with love, sexuality, and war. The temples dedicated to Ishtar were adorned with lead dove figurines, further reinforcing the dove’s association with the goddess. Notably, one of the temples depicted a dove emerging from a palm tree, which is believed to represent Ishtar’s physical manifestation. This enduring link between the dove and the powerful goddess has left a lasting impression on the cultural and religious landscape of the ancient world.
Why 7? Seven represents the seven most difficult stories I have ever lived.
At work, I play the part of a successful businessman’s wife to perfection. I smile, make polite chit-chats, and put on a show.
But behind this dazzling facade lies a profound story of resilience and strength. I mastered the art of denial and rationalization, wielding them like a magician’s wand to navigate the complexities of my social obligations. I believed that supporting my partner’s career as a devoted wife and mother was a duty and a way to contribute to a greater purpose.
As the day unfolds, I juggle an array of roles, each a piece of my life’s intricate puzzle. One moment, I am a caring and nurturing mother, preparing a nourishing breakfast for my family, and the next, I am a loving caretaker, dropping my children off at school. Amidst the whirlwind of responsibilities, part of me craves rest, longing for eighteen hours of uninterrupted slumber and another grappling with haunting nightmares.
Yet, like a tightrope walker suspended in mid-air, I move forward with grace and determination, attending high-stakes business meetings, my mind brimming with innovative ideas for world leaders. My courage and eloquence in these arenas are nothing short of awe-inspiring.
But this captivating person has challenges. Beneath my dazzling exterior, I carry an intense sense of despair, a secret emotional black hole that has consumed me for far too long. Amidst the applause and adoration, a self-deprecating voice attempts to extinguish any hope of recovery.
The audience cannot help but be drawn into my world, cheering for my success, and empathizing with my moments of vulnerability. My journey is one of resilience, strength, and the indomitable spirit to overcome the darkness within.
Readers root for me, yearning to break free from the emotional vortex that threatens to engulf me. My story is an enthralling tale of human triumph, where hope and determination outshine the shadows of despair.
People say that my journey left an indelible mark on their hearts. Still, despite all this, this story that I am about to share celebrates the indomitable spirit of the human soul and reminds us that even amidst the greatest darkness, there is always a glimmer of light waiting to shine through.
My struggle began with the heart-wrenching loss of my 3 year old daughter Jumana. This event marked the start of a deep, personal battle, a quiet sorrow that seeped into every aspect of my life. It’s a loss that changes you fundamentally, forever.
As days turned into weeks, my family mourned for Jumana as if a part of their own hearts had been taken away. But no one grieved as profoundly as I did. My pain was raw and unyielding, a constant reminder of the void left by my daughter’s absence.
People tried to console me, offering clichéd words and platitudes that deepened my isolation. I couldn’t fathom how life could carry on without Jumana. Nightmares of seeing her little body vanish into thin air never left me. Friends tried to reach out, but I pushed them away, fearing their presence would dull the rawness of my grief.
I kept working and working long hours, but soon I realized that my hands were shaking, and I was not in a reasonable frame of mind. Even then, despite everyone asking me to take time off, I was confused and lived in denial, hoping to find her somewhere hidden.
I went to the Dominican Republic 6 months after her death, and, one night alone by the ocean, I hurled, shouted, and screamed so loud that the sea reacted. I understood. She was not with me.
The pain that comes with such a significant loss seems unbearable. Talking to other people about what I was experiencing seemed almost impossible. Part of you doesn’t want to talk about it, but you know you will have to someday.
How can I talk about something so heavy? How can people understand my loss if they haven’t experienced it themselves?
Grief, I learned, is just love. It is all the love I wanted to give but could not. All that unspent love collects in the corners of my eyes, the lump in my throat and that hollow part of my chest.
I lost my identity and didn’t know who I was for a while. Was I still a mother? I didn’t know my purpose or if God no longer loved me.
I was supposed to be the mother of a living child. I didn’t know why I was still breathing when my baby had stopped breathing. I knew I would never know my baby’s voice when she grew up. I will never see the seasons of growth and fruitful life. I will never know which is the most painful thing.
My daughter was a mystery I could never solve. I was exhausted, and my heart was incomplete, constantly breaking in hope and doubt.
I had been struggling for years to be better. All my peers consistently told me how strong I was, but sometimes you just want to stop being vital for a moment and let go.
My only remedy was helping people and children since my daughter’s death. Seeing smiles on children’s faces was more than I could ask for. It gave me hope.
My husband was my rock, but even his support felt like a distant echo. We grieved differently, and our once unbreakable bond began to splinter under our sorrow. We found solace in tears each night, but when the morning came, I felt like I was drifting further from him as if OUR shared pain had become an insurmountable gulf.
One evening, I stood on the edge of MY balcony, staring at the abyss below; a neighbour appeared beside me. He was a gruff, elderly man with vibrant blue eyes that carried his own burden. He had lost his son many years ago, and the grief etched on his weathered face drew my attention.
“Lost someone, have you?” he said, his voice both weary and understanding.
I nodded, unable to find words.
“I lost my boy,” he continued, “And I know you aren’t ever going to be the same. But you got to keep living for her, you hear me? She wouldn’t want to see you like this.”
His words penetrated the numbness that had engulfed me. I saw a reflection of my own anguish in his eyes, and the realization hit me like a thunderbolt; I wasn’t alone in MY pain.
From that moment, a strange camaraderie formed between us. I sat on the balcony, and we both shared stories of Jumana and his son, finding comfort in our shared grief. His presence became a lifeline for me, a glimpse of hope in my sorrow.
With time, I understood that MY grief expressed my love for Jumana and that it was okay to feel joy and pain simultaneously.
One day I woke up and didn’t immediately cry. The pain in my chest was reduced to manageable doses. I started attending social events. I started having conversations that, yes, cheered me up. I knew how to smile again.
Somehow, through this pain, I learned to celebrate new life. Although my daughter did not survive, she taught me something medical school never could. She taught me that the lessons of medicine don’t end with death, and she reminded me every day to be more empathetic, compassionate, and forgiving because sometimes all we have in this life are a few precious breaths, and then we’re gone.
I am more hopeful today than I was yesterday.
I am lucky to have a son who means music to my soul. I am fortunate to have my family and all that I have accomplished.
Though the void of losing Jumana would never fade completely, I learned to carry MY daughter’s spirit within my heart.
My journey through grief taught me that pain and love could coexist and that healing wasn’t about forgetting but about learning to live with loss.
In the depths of my sorrow, I found a strength I never knew I possessed, and in honouring my daughter’s memory, I discovered a resilience that would forever define me.
In a world where loss was an inevitable part of life, my story became a testament to the enduring power of a mother’s love and the indomitable spirit that arises from even the most intense pain.
Today, I choose to sing and bring the Gift that God has blessed me with. The gift of passion and hope: the gift of forgiveness.
About DUVII
DUVII, formerly known as White Dove, is an Artista whose music resonates with the purpose of creating awareness about pressing social issues that affect our world. As a global citizen, having lived in six countries and fluent in six languages, DUVII’s artistry is deeply influenced by her travels and her unwavering commitment to making a positive change. Prior to her musical endeavors, DUVII worked as a medic, providing vital assistance to those in dire need. This experience fostered her passionate drive to combat human and organ trafficking, while also advocating for victims of violence, war, famine, inequality, and other injustices. Choosing to remain anonymous, DUVII ensures that the focus remains on the messages within her music.
Her own recording studio serves as a sanctuary for her creative process, where she weaves together soulful melodies and heartfelt lyrics that serve as a catalyst for change. DUVII has established a program that enables individuals worldwide who have endured suffering to request a personalized song. Whether dedicated to someone dear or to deliver a powerful message, DUVII crafts each song with compassion, incorporating the requester’s name to honor their experiences. These requests are meticulously filtered to align with her mission and amplify the voices of the voiceless.
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