Morality and its victim, the mother - what a terrible picture! Is

In the fierce and unflinching words of Emma Goldman, “Morality and its victim, the mother—what a terrible picture! Is there indeed anything more terrible, more criminal, than our glorified sacred function of motherhood?”—we hear the cry of rebellion against chains wrapped in the guise of holiness. This is no simple rejection of virtue, but a lament for those who have been imprisoned by false morality—that cold and rigid construct which demands sacrifice without gratitude, obedience without freedom, and purity without joy. Goldman’s words rise from the deep well of human truth, calling us to see that motherhood, though sacred in essence, has often been used as a weapon to bind rather than to uplift.

In ages past, the world praised the mother as the symbol of virtue—the sacred vessel, the nurturer, the gentle heart. Yet in that very glorification lay her enslavement. She was told her duty was divine, but her will was denied. She was exalted as saint and servant both, celebrated in song yet silenced in council. What Emma Goldman sought to unveil was not the worthlessness of motherhood, but the hypocrisy of a society that worshipped it in words while crushing the women who lived it. To call this “criminal” was not blasphemy—it was revelation. For what crime could be greater than to sanctify suffering, to praise a woman for her pain while denying her power?

Consider the life of Mary Wollstonecraft, mother of Mary Shelley and one of the earliest voices for women’s rights. In the eighteenth century, she defied the chains of convention, demanding that women be educated, not merely adorned. She bore her child out of wedlock, scandalizing a world that prized virtue over truth. For daring to live freely, society condemned her; yet her child would later give birth to one of the greatest creations of modern literature—Frankenstein. In Wollstonecraft’s defiance, we see the spirit of Goldman’s words: that true motherhood is not blind submission, but the courage to create life and thought in defiance of oppression.

The morality that Goldman condemns is not the eternal sense of good that lives in all hearts, but the constructed morality of social expectation—the laws of men disguised as divine order. It demands that a woman give her body, her labor, her identity, and call it virtue. It commands her to suffer in silence and call it love. It cloaks her chains in honor and calls her blessed. Yet Goldman, with the fire of truth, tears this veil apart and asks: what sanctity is there in suffering imposed, in devotion demanded, in motherhood forced by duty rather than chosen by will?

Her question, bold as lightning, is meant not to destroy, but to awaken. She does not condemn the mother—she mourns her. For in her heart, Goldman saw the mother not as a servant of morality, but as a creator of humanity, a being whose sacredness should arise from freedom, not obligation. When she calls motherhood’s glorification “terrible,” she speaks of a society that adores the idea of the mother, yet neglects the woman herself—the mother who hungers, who dreams, who bleeds unseen.

In the manner of the ancients, let us see the deeper wisdom: that every sacred thing can be corrupted when stripped of truth. Love without freedom becomes servitude. Devotion without joy becomes despair. The true sanctity of motherhood lies not in sacrifice, but in strength; not in silent suffering, but in conscious choice. The mother’s heart, when free, is the mightiest force on earth—it shapes nations, inspires revolutions, births both bodies and ideas. But when bound by dogma, that same heart becomes the victim of a world afraid of its power.

Let this be the lesson to all generations: question the morality that glorifies pain, for not all that is praised is good. Honor motherhood not as a duty, but as an act of creation freely embraced. Support the mothers around you not with words of worship, but with acts of care, respect, and equality. Lift the veil of sanctified suffering and let the light of truth shine upon the women who give life.

And so, Emma Goldman’s cry becomes a commandment for the future: let no ideal imprison the living spirit of womanhood. For only when the mother is free to be human—strong, flawed, joyous, sovereign—will her role become truly sacred again. The art of creation deserves reverence, but not at the price of freedom. For freedom itself is the mother of all things.