Message in Time
When the Silenced Get Heard… Part 2
Well, I would not abandon the meaning of my own experience. I would rescue my twelve-year old self from being buried in oblivion. I would show how rebellious girls and women, along with that rarest of rare creatures, free-thinking Muslim males, like Al Ma ‘arri, we the dissidents, from one generation to the next, are made invisible. And, tomorrow Haroon and his sisters go to school. Maybe I won’t ever see them again.
Turning gingerly in bed, I faced the window again.
“Haroon?”
“Yes Auntie?”
“Can you open the curtains, and pass me that pad of paper and pen?”
“Oh, you have another rainbow pen! How many did you bring from your visit to Zimbabwe?
Well, one each for you and your sisters, and one for me, so yeah, I bought four.
Are you going to write, lying down?’”asked Haroon.
“Yes, before I forget” I replied, my voice, a whisper.
“What are you going to write about?” asked Haroon.
“Well, Sweety Pie, it’s a message for you, for when you are older!” I smiled.
“Wow, Auntie Hanna, is it a secret message?”
“You could say that, sweetheart”.
“Auntie, Auntie why can’t you just tell me now?” said Haroon, his eyebrows rising like horizontal exclamation marks.
“Well, you see, it’s for the Haroon who will be eighteen, not the Haroon who is nine.”
“Oh, God, that’s ages and ages away. But… why can’t you just tell me then?”
“Because I might be far away, abroad somewhere. China, India, or somewhere in Africa… I might even be with God by then”.
“Aunteeee, you know you are just going to get better and better”.
“Aww, you know I’m only joking”. I laughed, my heart feeling much lighter.
“Come and give me a kiss!”.
Haroon looked uncertainly at me as he got up. He kissed me softly on the cheek, holding the Koran to one side carefully. Then he sat back down again, crossing his legs on the floor.
“Will you tell me the story of when you were hitchhiking in Zimbabwe again?”
“ Oh you mean when I got a lift in the open truck?”
‘Yes, that was such a funny story. And can we play chess after I’ve finished this Koran reading?”
“Ok, ok, I’ll tell you more about that journey across the border from South Africa, to Bulawayo in Zimbabwe, when you ‘ve finished that page. And you’re the only one interested in playing chess so yes to that too!”
“I hope this is the last time I have to repeat this because… because… God! It’s sooo boring!” Rolling his eyes comically, Haroon began repeating: kolokan olbaahr meatha, lehkamin rabbee lanfeh albarah kabil thanfath valo jeeanah…”
I began writing my message to Haroon. Maybe he will have forgotten me by then, maybe he will never find this piece of paper… but let me write now, what is on my mind…
We, the truth-telling tribe of writers and artists, we are the ones who rise above our pain, our shame, our humiliation, and dipping our pens and pencils and paintbrushes in our own blood, we write, draw and paint the typography and terrain, to catapult both ourselves and others out of the concentration camps where we were imprisoned, our humanity denied, our goods used to feed our torturers, our bodies experimented upon, and our skin turned to lampshades for those who love darkness much more than light. Summoning up strength from every cell of our bodies we scream, “No more!” We might have been skinned alive for our differences, but with our fingernails, we dig our way out. In making our way out, we form an escape route from the gas chambers and the labour camps, for those left behind.
Yes! I want to tell you Haroon, and your sisters, that our parents give us our body, our physical inheritance but when they try to shape our very soul to their liking, they tread on hallowed ground. So, what happens if their religion, on which they base their moral compass, defines parental rights as including the right to ensure their children grow up believing in their particular religion? And if said children dare to think outside the boundaries prescribed for them, what then? What happens if a child (or an adult) dares to leave the parent’s religion, which has at its centre, a Holy Book that gives the parents (and the community of believers linked to them) the God-given right not merely to chastise or admonish, but also, the right to kill that child/adult person who wants to leave the circle of Believers?
Of course, some Muslim parents may not be so hard-hearted, so brutal, as to go that far. There are less openly gruesome ways to express anger, aggression and fury at being disobeyed and defied, than physically killing someone.
But I don’t think Haroon, I can wait around to find out.
Haroon, in Harare? Liberty Books.
“Ok, Haroon, after you’ve finished your recitation for today, you can get yourself some milk, grow big and join me on that trip: destination, Harare.”
“Looks like Nana has forgotten to bring you some water. Shall I get it?”
I nodded. Haroon got up. I could hear him charging downstairs. He returned with water and some tissues, handed them to me and before he could settle back down, I said, “Can you get me another pillow and then I can set up the chessboard? Thanks, Haroon, I’m so glad you are with me. ”
Haroon brought me a pillow from the other bedroom, and then resumed his reciting of the Koran, his bright sing-song voice louder, more energised than before.
‘ ‘kolokan olbaahr meatha, lehkamin rabbee lanfeh albarah kabil thanfath valo jeeanah…’
22 Years Later
‘Nana, Nana, can I have custard on my birthday cake?’
‘Well, maybe not on it, but I can make some custard for you, yes…’ Nana bent down to give Ruby a kiss.
“I can’t believe she is six years old tomorrow, Haroon”.
“Yes, it feels like only a short while ago, she was crying in her cot, and crawling along the floor”, smiled Haroon.
“Well, as she is six, she can start learning to read the Koran, you know. It’s the best age to start. I found the bag with the chapters of the Koran you began reading, when you were a kid. It’s been in the attic all these years. But, you know, I think it is better to begin early. Your mother was with her in-laws so I couldn’t start you on the Koran at the age of six and you know there were hardly any madrassas for children in those days…’
“Yes I think the Jesuits also said, Give me a child and I will give you the man by the age of seven’, or something like that…” said Haroon, frowning slightly.
‘Nana, nana, can we make custard NOW?”
‘Let’s go’, answered Nana and the two of them went off to the kitchen.
Haroon sat down on the sofa and opened his old school sachel. There was a musty smell coming from it, a stained patch in one corner, where a tangerine — or was it a banana, had gone mouldy. He’d wiped it clean, but clearly not thoroughly enough. There were twelve thin, hard back books, those sparays, little booklets, each a different colour, with elaborate calligraphy on the cover page in dark black. There was that little magnetic chess set, too, and a dog-eared notebook a couple with scribbles and scrawls. He flicked through… and his heart nearly stopped as he saw a roughly coloured-in rainbow and under it a poem in handwriting that he recognized… Aunty Hanna ! What was the poem? He held his breath as he read it…
The Prophets too, among us come to
teach;
Are one with those, who from the pulpit
preach;
They pray and slay and pass away and
yet;
Our ills are as pebbles on the beach.’
By the one and only Al Maari, Syrian Philosopher.
Haroon’s heart was thumping heavily as his daughter came dancing back in the room.
“Present for me?’ She dived into the bag and brought out a little wooden box. His old chess set. Opening it, she ignored the pieces as they fell out and instead pulled off the red elastic around a small roll of paper and began unraveling it.
“Can Daddy see that? You go and help Nana make the custard, Ruby”. Haroon felt a stab of sheer fear and tried to make his voice sound normal.
That poem. He knew it was from his Auntie whose name no-one had mentioned for years and years. Auntie Ruhannah.
As he unrolled the paper it turned out to be one lined page of closely handwritten text. His Auntie Hanna’s writing. Oh, he recognized it, though so many years had passed since he last saw her or her handwriting. His heart was thumping hard like he’d just sprinted a mile. His head was pounding. Haroon shoved everything back in the bag and rushed into the downstairs bathroom, going through the living room and avoiding the kitchen altogether. Hurriedly, he locked the door. His hands were shaking. His legs felt weak. He dropped down onto the toilet seat and took a few deep breaths. Then he focused on the neat left slanting handwriting in the rainbow pen. He gulped down Auntie Ruhannah’s words guiltily, like he was drinking vodka on the sly in Saudi Arabia. Twenty minutes passed as he read her words again and again. And then, again. Breathing deeply, he gazed at the title:
‘A Message in Time’
His Auntie had written this for him. When he was nine years old. She’d hoped he would find it by the time he was eighteen. Haroon looked at his reflection in the mirror. Tears were streaming down his face. He recalled that nightmarish evening, before she was taken to hospital. Something he had never voiced to anybody, not even his wife. A fact everyone in the family had buried under heavy blankets of silence.
He, a nine year old boy, visiting his Nan’s house, had woken up to loud voices. His Uncle was shouting something. Tiptoeing downstairs, he saw the door to the living room was slightly ajar. He had peeped in. His Uncle had a knife. He stabbed Auntie who was standing opposite him. Just once. Grandad stopped him from stabbing her again. At the same time, his mother’s voice, yelling, ‘Stop it, Stop it’ !
Then she was calling an ambulance. His Auntie was bleeding from her stomach and she staggered backwards onto the black leather sofa. She did not say a word.
Then his mother had called out.
“Haroon, are you there?” His heart beating insanely fast, he had run upstairs as softly as he could, in his bare feet, and jumped back into his bed. And never told anyone what he had seen.
“Haroon, can I come in?”
It was his wife, Dessi’s voice. He opened the door, woodenly, on automatic pilot.
“What?… what’s the matter?’, she asked him, shocked by his pale, tear-streaked face.
Haroon felt weak and slumped down on the floor. Dessi knelt down beside him, her eyes wide with fear.
Her husband handed her the paper in his hand.
‘What… what is this?’
“It is something from my Auntie Ruhannah. You remember, I told you on our wedding day, that I had an Auntie who everyone pretends never existed.”
“Message in time… ?” Dessi was Bulgarian, a linguist, and the calmest person he knew.
“I… I think I can see what has been going on in this family of yours. Your Auntie was questioning Islam. Perhaps she was pregnant outside of marriage, or there was someone she was seeing. This kind of thing happens in Bulgaria, you know, in the Muslim families, especially in the villages, if one of their girls liked someone who was not Muslim, for example. Your grandparents could not accept your Auntie for doing that. So… is this her message to you? That’s amazing! From how many years ago?”
It’s such a long time ago… it was when I’d just turned nine… November fireworks always makes my birthday memorable… . Auntie came back from hospital the next day. I remember, going to the room she was sleeping in…. I knew grandma didn’t want me to be there, but I stayed”.
“She must have really loved you, your Auntie Ruhannah! Look at this…”.
Dessi pointed to the last page.
“Don’t you see? She is telling you to come and find her in Harare”.
“In Harare? The capital of Zimbabwe? Are you sure? When can we go’, said Haroon.
“No-one from the family has talked to her all these years… She was in her early thirites I think, back in 1996. It’ was just before the internet took off. I wonder if she’s changed her name. Let’s look up Liberty Books. It sounds like a publiishing house or maybe, a bookshop”.
“She must be in her fifties now. Oh my God!”
As soon as you can book the flights’, answered Dessi, caressing her husband’s head.
‘It’s the summer holidays, I have another three weeks off college. Nobody else needs to know why we are going there’.
‘Let’s book those tickets now! Haroon stood up and felt taller and lighter than he had done in years.
‘And let’s make some excuse and leave Nana’s house today, he added as he opened the door.
‘Are you sure?
‘Damn right I am sure. And I am going to give her these back.
Haroon pointed to the sparays, the books for children learning to read the Koran.
“Our Ruby will read the Koran in English when she is old enough to think for herself and not before.”