 The city in me
How can I explain that Khorramshar and
those I knew are still alive in my memories?
By Mammad Aidani
September 1, 2003
The Iranian
The older
I get the more I feel the larger my memory tunnel is becoming.
But, of course, there are some deep-rooted things in that tunnel
which I wish not to remember. Sometimes I find myself screaming
at them to go away. You see, I'm the kind of individual that
has this great desire to stand up and speak. No, don't get
me wrong, I have this desire not because I want to. That's
not the case at all; it is the reflection I have on language that
encourages this feeling in me, and I don't know what to do
with it. As far as I remember I have never had any capacity to
speak eloquently in a group or at home when I was kid. As a matter
of fact in my home we only spoke occasionally. Now that I have
this feeling in me to speak I have to admit that I'm too
tired to ignite any fire in me at this stage of my life.
As you can imagine I'm not an orator, however, I
wish to say something when I feel the urge to do so. Strangely
enough,
today, I mean this morning, I got up and had this huge pang of
feeling on my chest telling me to go out and speak my heart out.
I was so emotional that I am unable explain it to you, it does
not matter how much I try.
As I was experiencing this pang of emotion this
morning, I was very frightened. I went for a short walk, hoping
it would go away,
but it didn't so I tried to not to take any notice of it,
but it insisted. So, later on I said to myself, 'You have
to speak now'. I have never considered myself as someone
who has the ability to actually say anything important. But the
sudden pang I had this morning had a deep voice, telling me its
intention so clearly. It told me, 'Look, who knows, you might
die soon, so you better speak'. I know it sounds silly, but
this simple pang and the voice have changed my whole life since
this morning, as simple as that. I don't know what to do.
The only thing I wish to do is retire into myself and do what I
have been doing for years. Keep thinking to understand.
Yes exactly this. To strive and recover from the
deep wounds that have inflicted me by the losses of so
many things in my
life, including my beloved city. I always had the will to just
keep to myself as silently as I have always done since the war
ended. To tell you the truth, for me, the end of the war was the
beginning of my real nightmares. People do not realise that the
real war, for those who have gone through it, begins when the guns
stop shooting at each other.
Neither pessimistically nor optimistically
I have to admit that, 'No, I can't anymore.' I have to start from
somewhere otherwise
the voice will come back to haunt me further. Perhaps I have to
talk about the city. It may be a good start anyway. Simply because
I think it is worth it. And for one particular reason, that is
always there, in me and out of me, and I never say anything about
it. It seems to be the surest way and a useful way to start. Who
cares whether I will succeed in articulating what is there or not.
I have already said that I have never been an eloquent individual,
but in this crucial situation I have to respond to the voice -- the
city is pressing me to say something.
I don't mean the city in me but the actual city
I existed in so long ago. Well, I better put it this way -- the
actual city that had existed around me. This city does not want
to die in me, really it does not have any desire to die at all.
It keeps reminding me of itself all the time. It is paradoxical
that I, as well, do not want this city to die in me. For such a
long time we have found this twin-like relationship as a necessary
principle for our coexistence, and for my survival and dignity.
We live in each other and have never been separated from each other
since we said goodbye to one another. We also share the humiliations
we have experienced since it was destroyed . We grieve for
each other all the time.
*
Me and It, It and Me, have been glued to one another.
It is perhaps because a larger proportion of our mutual stories
are fixed in
both of us. We sing each other's songs. We talk to each other
through the language we have about who we knew and who we did
not know. We share the deep music we played to each other
since my
childhood. As I said, I'm not an eloquent user of words but
I have to confess that, when I was very little, I always wanted
to write things about the city, its people and the things in
it. Don't laugh, it's true. What am I talking about?
I have to go back to what I was supposed to say. I have lost
the thread of my thinking.
I started with my memory tunnel in the
first sentence. I better go back to it and plainly explain what
I had in mind
by saying
it. You see, as I vaguely indicated, after I experienced
the strange pang on my chest when I woke up this morning, I felt
the urge to
speak about my city and the war. And the first thought
that crossed my mind was why, to this day, do I not know how
and
why they
rationalised their actions to invade and consequently destroy
my little city?
They killed and humiliated both It and Me. How can I explain to anybody that my city, and those
who I knew are still alive in my memories? And how do explain
why
I have
been too paralysed to speak for so long? How much more
have I lost since
the Iran-Iraq war (1980-88), especially in my private life,
as a result of so many misunderstandings? How can I articulate
the
deep
and
disturbing
feelings that invade me from time to time, that are out
of my control, that have a terrible and debilitating affect
on me,
that I can't
do anything about them? Except to seek refuge in my solitude
and grieve for calm in order to not bother others, and
then re-emerge and survive again?
However, after the pang, I also thought of the old
woman who often comes to my thoughts. She usually comes to talk
to me
about our
city. The last time I saw her she was crying and I could
not stop her. My wounds were too fresh to let her go
on
like that.
I feared
that I myself will explode as well, and I was too exhausted,
both mentally and physically, to witness her agony. I
decided, without
offending her, to change the subject and diverted our
attention to talk about my other friends, especially those who
were
not killed in the war.
She was dismayed and gave me the
impression that she
could not hear what I was saying. Her old face was
lifeless and full of painful scars. She was determined to let
me know again,
as if I didn't know, and said, 'It was on 22 September
1980 when the enemy's forces under the leadership of
Saddam Hussein, and with the support of the Americans and English
and the entire west invaded your city.' She emphatically
repeated,
'Your city.' As she stopped at the end of her sentence
I again felt the death of something in me. It might
sound strange,
but
any time that I hear my city's tragic story, whether
related
to me personally or not, I feel something small dies
in me. After a few minutes of silence she continued and
said, 'They always wanted to invade and take your city since
you were
a kid. Do you remember how you and the other boys played
on the
rough
surfaces with your plastic balls while your
city was barricaded by soldiers, preparing themselves
for the
war with
Ahmad Takriti?
I think it was in 1973.' I did not know what to say
except that she was stretching my memory through time and space.
'So I have been experiencing the terror of war for
so long,' I mumbled to myself. She was right. I replied that,
'Yes,
I remember everything and even the year, 1973,
when soldiers set up their tanks and dug their
hideouts in case
the Iraqis attacked.'
She said, 'You see, we all live in our memories and
events are just seeds to water us as trees, some
with too many
branches, and others with just a few.' I did not
know what she
meant by
this but I liked the metaphorical and the poetic
sound.
I was numbed by how vividly she could remember things
in her old age. I nodded, hiding the deep sadness
in my voice
and
said, 'Yes,
of course I remember, I was just a kid.' She interjected
and said, 'They were fixated on war and he was
the worst of them all. I knew he was going to drag us
into war
sooner or later after that fake treaty he had signed
in 1975 with
the other
guy, I don't even want to mention his name.' She
looked at me and suddenly uttered that, 'Your so-called
revolution
was a golden chance for Saddam, the Americans and
the West to help him fulfill his dream, that's
why they
gave him
any kind
of weapon he wished to have to destroy -- for the
sake of oil.'
*
I went into my deep silence. I wanted and needed
to speak and here I was, hearing
her pouring her heart out. 'You see,' she moved towards me
and started to cry again, 'they didn't care who they
were, what their purpose
was, or which side they were on. They killed 1.5 million
from both sides and there are still thousands of
war prisoners, and millions
of mothers and fathers and relatives still grieving for the
absence of their loved ones, all because of this mess.
And the most
tragic thing about all
of this is that nothing has been done to rebuild
your city since the 1988 UN-mandated
cease fire.'
I did not know what to say. Memories of the city
and her voice mixed together and made me weaker as I was watched
her hopeless
agitation
in front of
me. This was the woman who never spoke as I remembered
her
from my childhood. How come
she suddenly talks when I'm overwhelmed? 'Your city is
still there in ruin. Whilst millions are still
living in
refugee camps.'
And here we are. Another war. What for? I wanted
to interject but she pushed in, 'Why have wars and conflicts,
since recorded history, plagued
our region?'
Her
sharp, quick and precise
words were piercing my ears. In my sadness I prevented
myself from disturbing her more. 'No. Please no more
war, please.'
Yes, as far as I can remember I always wanted to
write poetry. I recall that I had this desire to stand up
and read my simple
poems
to my friends
in order
to make them feel happy, enriched, reflect or even
laugh. I did not know that you could actually write
poems that
could make
people laugh!
*
When I left my city it was my dream to go back
and resume a normal life there. It was in 1979. I was
still young,
full of hope,
and the warmth
of life was
still deeply ingrained into my being. I could
not, in my remotest
dreams, imagine that
I could lose my city only a year later. I still
sometimes wake up at night and run in the corridor, fearing
that the invaders
are still
burning my
city. To
this day I don't believe that I have lost my
city and have so many questions to raise that thinking
about
them leads
me to
the verge
of
madness. The
pain of war is everywhere in my mind, and it
makes my body so weak. I see the buildings of my city in ruin and I don't
believe it. Whilst I was looking at her I could
hear the screams
of people
in her eyes.
She
was sitting there in front of me, stoic, saying
nothing. If I didn't say a word
she
would sit and gaze at the ceiling all day. 'I
will never go back to that city anymore,' she said abruptly.
'But
you gave
birth
to children
there,' I uttered. 'That's true, but who wants
to rebuild a life in a city which is so close
to the
border and
looks like
a graveyard? The smell of war is everywhere when
you are there. No,
not me; I will
never go back
to that hell. Do you remember your city was leveled
by the Iraqis before leaving it? It is the city
that is
full of
ghosts. I cannot
see it
anymore.'
The scars of war were too deep and I see them
in her face, I can see how they have been pierced
into her
life. I could
see
them
and was
unable to
do anything
about it except listen and acknowledge that
she was talking about my city. 'Do you remember how
you and
the other
kids used to
swim in the
Karun River?'
Another
question came out of her, but I stopped her
and said, 'Yes, but I could not swim. I just put
my
feet in
the river and
drank its
water.'
She
gave me a gentle smile and said, 'It's all
the same. Not all could swim, but nevertheless you enjoyed the
river.' I smiled back and felt surprised by her logic
and left
it there
without
saying anything.
She was gazing at the ceiling
again. I felt that pang on my chest once more and realised
how much
me, and
my city,
are still
cohabitating each other.
However,
I have to admit that the more I hear about
its destruction and the humiliating look
it has had
since
1982, increasingly
it is
becoming more
of an alien place
to me. It is still very familiar, and
at the same time so unfamiliar. As time passes
by, memories become more vivid. I'm confused
about the faces of my city and I don't
know how to reconcile
with this
malady. I want the city's face the way I
remember it. This is natural simply because I lived with that face
since birth.
As
time goes on, I hear my city's music only in my
soliloquies, and this
helps me recall the way it sang it to
me. On the other hand, the other face has shaded
the first
one,
and created in me
this strange
energy
and desire
to write
a very long poem, but I cannot write
it. Perhaps that's why I have lost my eloquence. I think this is largely due to the current war in
Iraq. No wonder this pang is increasingly bothering
me
now, more than
ever.
Sometimes I
can see
the sentences coming
to me, wanting to express a big image
with rich emotions but, as soon as I pick
up the pen, they all turn into a cacophony
of sounds. I hear this huge noise in
my head and
feel paralysed.
My
weak body
cannot help
me anymore,
so again
and again I'm forced to articulate what
I feel inside me. Soon after this convulsion
the writing
that's
stuck in
my throat
vanishes somewhere
in
me again, and in its place I see and
hear the shapes and sounds of bombs, bodies
amputated
into pieces,
and children
screaming
in my
city. Exhausted,
I collapse
and soon an ocean of tears pours down
from my eyes, and I go to sleep.
According to my mind, my city has
never been destroyed. It resists to acknowledge
that
it has and I have
not done anything
about
it. I simply
let this thought
be alive. It does not insult or beguile
me. It is just a thought and it longs
to live in
me; I don't
have
any desire
to evict
it. Why should
I?
I was in these thoughts when she
interrupted me from where I was in my mind. 'Oh
dear, you have
always
lived elsewhere,
even
when
you were
hungry
you
did not
want to agree that you were.' I replied
that if I admitted it, I would
die from
despair. That's
why I
wanted to become
a poet and
write a long poem. She laughed and
said, 'You see,
you have
always been surviving
by talking things through poetic
spaces in order to survive.' I liked her
comments and said to her, 'You see,
there is nothing in the world which
could surprise
me
about human
beings.' It is
inside this
world that
I have to live, and the city knows
it so well. It was there
that I began
to learn
the alphabet of living in the world.
*
I loved spring in the city. The river
was the life-giving reason to
be there. Nothing
was
there for me except
the water, and
the sun that
turned
my skin
dark brown. I wanted to catch
the wind. The wind that was blowing
from all
directions was my hope. I knew
that behind the trees,
just a mile away from where I
used to stroll, was
Iraq and
the
entrance to
the Euphrates
and that
always created
magic in my young mind. The inaccessibility
of "over there" was the beginning
of my desire to
explore the
unknown
things.
These two rivers, when
joining together, always took the water
to distances
beyond my imagination,
and
had always
fascinated
me. I
used to have
so many thoughts
about this and as a result
I was bugged by a minefield of
images
which further
stimulated
my helpless
situation. However,
they
also forced
me to fall in
love with the creative language
of imagining places where I
was not
allowed to go
to. This gave me words to talk
to myself in soliloquies.
I was alone in my city, walking
in the world around me and
observing and experiencing
it with
words all
in my head. And I knew what
I was doing to ignore the terrible
feeling
of living
in
the dust of
poverty rubbing
against
my face.
Hunger was pushing
me to the edge and I had
my river to
talk to.
It listened
to
me and
I knew
it. We both
did not
believe
in anything,
neither king
nor any other ruler. We were
in an eternal dialogue and
without any
doubt we
trusted each other. The Karun
River
and I were best friends.
There was no way
we
would betray each other.
We gave life to each other. Our
give
and take
relationship was absolutely
equal. There was no big ego
between
us. We were and
that
was
it. This was the rule in
our book.
What I'm saying here may
sound grotesque or naive
to you,
but I loved that
naivety which
stemmed
from the
simple
life and
environment in
which I was
conditioned to live. It
provided me with the feeling that
it was the only way left
for
me to go on and keep imagining.
When I look back this makes
me think that,
in
a
mysterious way, this way
of seeing the world and
life was
a great
precursor to calm me
down and
it somehow
restored
peace
in my
turbulent life.
I must admit
that it worked well at
keeping me out of trouble in that
absolutely uncertain
world.
It taught
me to be
skeptical
about any seductively
designed great
ideas, or the promises I
heard. This also provided
me with
early nourishment to learn
how
to think and
pay attention
to
the presence
of things.
It is late and outside it is pouring.
I look at the old
and circular
face
of an old
woman who is
fixed
in her
silence as usual.
I decide
not to break
this silence between
us. I know that there are layers
and layers
of unsaid
things
between us.
But honestly,
I'm not
in the mood
to
open
up anything
at the
moment. But I smile in
order to calm everything
down,
and
turn
to her
and then tell her
that, 'I have always
loved
our city
on cold
days.'
She looks
and says, 'I know.
You always were in a
better
mood
in that season.'
Then the
fragments
of
things
began to invade
me and
I needed
things to
distract me
and the rain seemed to
be the best. I gave myself
to
it for
the time
being. And hope
that there
won't be more wars.
Immersing
myself, my swinging
mind going between
my thinking
and questioning
all
of a sudden
this thought
crosses
my mind, 'When
we learn abut the
gift of no revenge
and fill our hearts with
the questions
that
will enrich
us all?' I
pause and allow myself
to laugh at myself.
Thinking of my losses
I think
that I
prefer to have thoughts
like
this in
my head
rather than
feelings
of
hate and revenge. It
is really
late. I have to go
to bed. I turn the light
off
and
give myself to the
night as I'm thinking of my
wounded Karun
River and the intimate
connection between
us.
I pray that
there won't
be be more wars.
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The city in me