Without
She uttered her current title softly: refugee
June 29, 2004
iranian.com
Nassrin sat alone. All traces of her past, it seemed
were shut out by the obtrusive, distasteful furniture that had
enclosed her.
A series of titles that she's been called by rushed
to aid her like true comrades: A child, little girl, activist,
university graduate,
daughter, lover, wife and prisoner. Voices, faces and smells, brought
to life the forgotten memories. She uttered her current title softly:
refugee. She waited to see if any sentiment would follow, but it
didn't. It never did. She hoped a memory would form in the
passing of time. But quickly the hope began to bend under the crushing
moment, getting heavier under the concatenation of her fragmented
thoughts.
Immured in the four walls, protected from her enemies
and the world she relentlessly tried to change, she picked up the
comb and started
to brush her long, black her. She didn't want to think. Yet,
her body yearned to feel. Her mother's caring hand slowly
took over, giving her the respite she needed. She sat still. It
was the touch that was going to solace her not a plethora of memories.
A simple touch she thought. The hand disappeared. Then her lover's
hands began to feel her breasts. She let the sensation run through
her body, making it warm and loved. Her husband, who's whereabouts
she didn't know, his fingers, sensually tip-toed
down her hungry skin. She straddled her legs and closed her eyes
for a moment. She wanted the ethereal, sweet illusion to coddle
her senses forever.
She opened her eyes, staring into whiteness of the
ceiling. Were they all with her now, inside her? She questioned.
The thoughts
once again opened a chasm between her and the feelings she so desperately
wanted to retain. She continued to brush her long, shinning, black
hair. She said to herself that she's very strong, stronger
than anyone she's ever met. But the thought evaporated as
quickly as it appeared.
Refugee, she whispered again. She resented the fact
that she couldn't
be proud of her current title. In the past she had brazenly identified
with the outcasts, the down and outs, the oppressed. Now she couldn't
give herself the same rapport. She felt powerless. Even in jail
she remained ambitious, full of future plans. She enjoyed the company
of likeminded people. She was somebody.
She stood up and made a ninety-degree rotation.
Someone else's
bed, table and wardrobe were mauling her like vicious dogs. There
was no place to hide. Standing, she caught her reflection on the
dusty window. That illusive countenance that had parried her over
the years this time didn't budge. She muttered her name,
Nassrin. Waited and muttered her name again. She was Nassirn. No
one else, just Nassrin, she told herself. There was no manifestation
to resort to, no leader to report to or a friend to turn to; only
Nassrin.
 Her portrait, framed in the dirty windowpane stood
still and looked back at her as if to say, Why now... I've always
been here...
She stared deeply into her eyes devoid of their
once puckish gaze. She was carrying too much in her. She didn't
know how much longer she could go on, remembering, forgetting,
forgiving.
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