i mumbled to myself all the way home.
“Noora’s already home,” I said. “She’s a smart girl. Young. Fast. She ran away. Ran home to Mama.”
I nodded.
“They’re sitting in the kitchen right now. Drinking tea and Mama is saying, ‘Nahid better get home soon.’ Noora laughs. Noora laughs and says, ‘Of course she’s coming home, Mama.’ That’s how it is. Masood is out buying bread for them. They’ll all three look at me when I walk through the door. They’ll yell at me and laugh at me and hug me. And then it will all be over, everything will be over, no big deal. No big deal.”
When I turned the corner to our street my mother was the first thing I saw. She was sitting on a stool outside the gate. She was rocking back and forth with her hands on her thighs. I could see someone had placed a tray of tea at her feet. She hadn’t touched the glass. I felt so ashamed when I saw her that I wanted to turn back.
As I approached, I saw my mother’s eyes were closed and her lips moving. She was reciting a poem by Hafiz. She whispered it, whispered as one whispers a prayer. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes and looked at me as if a ghost had stepped through her dreams. She stared at me for several seconds before she threw herself from the footstool. She threw herself with such force that the stool crashed onto the tea tray and the dishes broke into a thousand pieces. But she didn’t notice. She threw herself onto the ground at my feet and flung her arms around my legs. She shouted my name in a voice as shattered as the glass on the ground. I fell down beside her, and we held each other. She screamed, and I listened. I wished I too could scream, but it was as if the part of me capable of that was frozen solid.
“Maman. Maman,” I said finally. “Where is Noora?”
That moment. If I could somehow erase that moment from my life, from my memory, from my retinas. My mother’s uncomprehending stare. She assumed I was the one who knew where Noora was. She assumed Noora was safe. The confusion that transformed to terror, pure terror, and then her body falling to the ground next to me, where she curled up into a ball and screamed. Screamed a new name, her baby’s name. I wanted to lie down next to her, press myself against her and draw comfort from her round motherly body, but I feared she might die there. Feared her heart might burst and stop. She gasped for breath, and I thought: I have killed her. So I ran inside and called an ambulance. They lifted her up onto a stretcher and Mahvash and Gita rode along. My sisters didn’t look at me. They refused to look at me.
After they left, I walked through the house. Looked in every room. Finally I went into the room we shared, Noora and I. Her bed was carefully made up. The pajamas she wore lay folded on the bedspread. I lifted them and walked out again. Sat down on my mother’s stool and breathed in the scent of the soft fabric. Cats. I remember that. There were cats on her pajamas.
Masood came toward me in the dark. finally, he came. His clothes were torn, and he was dirty. Sand and mud everywhere. He came on foot, like me. I wondered if he’d been in the same interrogation room, answered the same way I had. If they had released him and he had breathed in the cool night air and started walking. But I knew better. He would never say what they wanted to hear. He would never nod to Islam and shake his head at Marxism. He would never name names.
He was the type they’d take out through one of the other doors. They’d never let him escape, into the darkness. A darkness reserved for traitors.
I was sitting on the stool when he came. Sitting completely still and staring straight ahead. It was as though I’d been holding my breath and could finally inhale. I breathed in deeply and then I screamed, straight out. He ran toward me and put his head in my lap. We cried together—I think it was the only time we cried together. We should have done it often, many more times. If only we’d cried together instead of letting the pain turn into a thorn between us, maybe our lives wouldn’t have turned out like this. Maybe then we wouldn’t have been so alone. Maybe then he wouldn’t be dead. And I wouldn’t be dying.
“I went by Rozbeh’s house,” he said. “I wanted to tell his parents. But the gate was broken, and I saw guards in the courtyard. I don’t understand. How did they identify him? Why are they going after his parents? They’re arresting innocent people, people who’ve just lost a son.”
I froze where I sat. I sat completely still. And I decided to never tell anyone. Not about the interrogation room or the questions. Not that I reported Rozbeh, gave them his name. His poor parents. My mother. These tormented souls.
“Noora is gone,” I said to Masood.
Something happened in his eyes when he heard my words. His loving, despairing brown eyes. It was as if his eyes fixated, and then emptied of all that was hopeful. Everything that was beautiful.
“No, no. She’ll come home.”
He let go of me, stood up, turned away.
“She’ll come home, Nahid. She will come home.”
He went into the house with his head bowed and his back bent like an old man.
I sat there. Wondered how we could ever forgive ourselves. How we could ever forgive each other. For bringing Noora with us. For letting her convince us. For enjoying having her with us.
what i didn’t know and couldn’t yet understand was that we too died that day. We were twenty years old, but in so many ways our lives had come to an end. What happened afterward was just a clumsy attempt to replace what we lost right there, on that day. Our child. Our escape. All my shifts, every hour on the job. All of it.
We should have died that night. All the years that followed were merely borrowed.
You don’t leave because you give up. you leave to do something, make something. Build something that’s like a middle finger in the face of all the shit that has happened.
People often see me as a victim. They expect me to be weak, submissive. As a refugee woman. I don’t understand their thinking. Don’t they realize I’m here because I’m strong? That it takes strength not to give up, to refuse to accept misery and oppression? Sometimes I wonder if they think they’re strong, that strength comes from never facing hardship. If they think a placid life builds resilience.
I’m proud of my strength. Blow after blow. I get up again every time. Get away every time. Like an immune system, becoming more resistant every time it’s attacked. That’s how it is! That’s just how it is.
But then the cancer came, and I start to doubt.
“Why did this happen to me?” I ask Christina. The thought bounces around in my head. “What have I done to deserve this?”
She puts her hand on mine and leans forward.
“It’s bad luck, Nahid. It’s just bad luck.”
That answer hits me hard. Bad luck. So banal. So provoking. After I fought so hard to have a good life. After being so stubborn, making so many sacrifices.
Bad luck.
Then I realize that it was bad luck that took Noora from us. And just luck that I was the one who survived. The same bad luck led my mother not to speak to me for weeks. Bad luck turned me from the pride of my family to its curse.
What if life has nothing to do with strength or weakness? What if it’s only chance that steers us? What if I’m just a woman with a lot of bad luck. Maybe that’s all I am. In that case, I wish I were weak. I wish I were weak with luck on my side.
It’s the swedish midsummer. the sun is shining. That’s rare, so everyone is happy. I look down from my window. On the grass beneath me, preparations are under way. Women in flowery dresses. Children in white. Flower wreaths. And that pole they dance around. It’s only ten in the morning, so the festivities haven’t really started yet. The people down below are the enthusiasts, there to set everything up. I lean out the window with my chin in my hand, watching them. The teacup next to my elbow is dark red. I have a sudden impulse, the kind you get sometimes. I want to lift my cup and tip its hot contents onto their heads. Not because I want to hit them, nor would I actually do it. The thought just passes through my mind, and I shudder to myself. Maybe I’m just crazy. M
aybe this cancer is for the best, both for me and for the world.
My phone beeps. We’ll be there soon, will you come down? It’s Aram and Johan. They insist I go with them, but to me it doesn’t matter. I could just as well have stayed home on the sofa watching TV. But no. I’ve taken out my flowery dress too.
I put it on and stand in front of the mirror. It’s hard to get used to the sight. No hair, no eyebrows. It’s like seeing yourself peeled. Faded. It’s like I’m disappearing. So I choose a purple scarf, intense purple. I draw on my eyebrows, pressing hard. It’s too much, I see that. But I do it anyway. Filling in the contours. I paint my lips. They smear immediately. I sweep my hand over my chin, try to wipe it away, but it’s set in the skin. I’ll leave it. Better to be too much than to become invisible. Ceasing to exist completely.
I ride the elevator down with my purse over my arm. I still like it. That feeling of being in motion. Being on my way somewhere. The feeling that it’s not over, not completely.
When I open the car door, she turns expectantly. I startle her. She’s reacting to my face. I make her uncomfortable. She says nothing, so he turns and speaks instead.
“What a lovely day!”
I nod.
“Yes, we’re sure to hear that more than once today.”
He continues smiling, and I want to ask him to stop. I want to tell him that he can’t replace my daughter. That she’s the one I need.
“How are you feeling, Mama?” she finally asks in a strained voice.
I sigh. Wonder why she asked me to come along if she can’t stand me. Why my own daughter looks at me like I’m a monster. Why she can’t make me happy. See to it that I’m happy.
“I’m here,” I reply. “It’s always something.”
They turn away, and the car starts to roll. I see him take her hand, hold it in a tight grip. It makes me sad. Sad that he needs to protect her, comfort her. And that there is nobody sitting next to me to do the same thing, reach for my hand. I’m the one who needs it.
We sit in silence. She turns on Persian music, Googoosh. We drive the same way we’ve driven so many times before. Down the highway that passes through forests, crosses over bridges and sea. My heart always skips a beat when we do. To be floating above islands and rocks and cabins and boats and sparkling clean, clear water. It is such a beautiful place. I have lived here for thirty years, and the beauty is something I never get used to. Such a beautiful place, and I have almost no good memories of it. How could that be?
When she was little, this was what we did together. We got in the car, put on loud music, and drove away. We drove out toward Djurö, or past the Värmdö Church, or just out toward Norra Lagnö. My foot pressed a little too hard on the gas. The music was a little too loud. I let go of the wheel and lit another cigarette much too often. I understand now that it wasn’t wise. But back then I didn’t care. Not even when she was sitting in the car. I was restless. I felt trapped. Yes, I so often felt like a prisoner in my own home, in my own head. Now I’m imprisoned in my sick body.
“Saber is dead,” masood said one afternoon.
I hadn’t heard him come in. He stood in the doorway. Straight, stiff, almost at attention.
I was sitting on the carpet with Aram on my knee. She was thirteen months old, and the small room we rented wasn’t big enough for life. A basement with no windows. A tiny creature can’t learn to live like that. She cried and cried, inconsolable. She’d been crying all day. All day we sat on the same spot, and she cried. When he came in, my head was in a fog. I must have been crying too, because I had to blink several times to see him properly. So I asked him to repeat what he said. Thought I’d heard wrong—the syllables had bounced against Aram’s anguish and turned into something else in my ears.
“What is wrong with you!” he screamed. “He is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.”
Aram howled even louder. Her tiny hands waved around in the air as she searched for something to grab on to. Hold fast to. I lifted her up against my chest and hushed her. Hushed her while I tried to think one clear thought, one thought that was anything but emptiness.
“Why are you just sitting there!” he screamed.
I yelled back.
“What am I supposed to do, Masood? What more, what more should we do? It’s over, everything’s over, there’s nothing left.”
He walked over to me and took her in his arms. She cried even louder now. Cried and screamed so it cut into me. It sounded like she couldn’t breathe, and his eyes were black, darker than I’d ever seen them, and I didn’t want him to hold my child.
“Masood, give her to me!”
I was trying to get up onto my legs when a force hit me, hit me so hard that I fell on my back. My first thought was that it must be an earthquake. I thought of Aram. We were in a basement. What if everything collapsed on our heads? Then the force hit me again, and I realized it wasn’t coming from the earth—it was coming from him. He stood over me, Aram in his arms, kicking me with his dirty shoes. He kicked at my stomach, my chest, took a run at my face. I raised my arms to protect myself, and he kicked, again and again. I heard tiny bones pop on top of my hands. I heard the loud howl from Aram, my already desperate child. I heard him panting.
And that was where I froze. I lay on the floor, and froze. There were no windows in that room and no phone and I couldn’t move. So I lay there, staring down at the pattern on the rug. It was handwoven. Our most cherished possession. We dragged it with us every time we moved. Masood carried it over his shoulders. I don’t know why we thought it was so important to keep. Why that particularly.
Handwoven in deep blue and red with swirling patterns you could drown in. Just like the deep blue of the sea outside the car window bordered by red cabins and green islands creates a swirling pattern you could drown in. It’s so beautiful. Why don’t I have any good memories?
My child is all that matters to me in this life. It could be because I have so little else. But no matter the reason, that’s how it is: all I have is Aram. I love her. I do. Who doesn’t love their own child? She’s important to me. I want things to go well for her. I want her to be healthy and happy. I want to see her often. I want all of that. But I don’t like being a parent. I never have.
When I think of giving birth, one word comes to mind: regret. Regret that I put myself into that situation. Regret that I let my body end up in that state. And the pain. So much pain. Why should a person have to endure such a thing? Men would never accept it. I was told I should be happy. I was carrying a big baby inside me, who was strong, who had thrived. I’d done my job right. I had been pregnant the right way. Now I was supposed to just squeeze it out, this product of my body, this proof I was a good woman. This enormous mass. In my mind I saw someone who didn’t want to come out. Someone scratching me with her nails, kicking me with her legs, resisting me with her arms. Someone who was already disappointed with me. Because I spoiled things for her. I pushed her out. Out into this. I imagined she might already hate me.
It was a humiliation. The fluids. The positions I had to contort my body into. They stood me up in bed, pressed my hands against the wall, told me to push. Push, push. Soon a nurse shouted, We see her. Look, look down. I couldn’t. I stood there with my cheek against the cold hospital paint, tears running over my swollen breasts, screaming and shaking. And felt regret. Oh, how I felt regret.
When they put her on my chest, I loved her, I did. From the very first moment I loved her. I realized that I would give my life for her. And I guess that was it. I realized I would give my life for her, and that it was impossible to change. It could not be taken back. Now I was she. Now my body existed for her. It scared me. It would mean never-ending torment. She would follow me for the rest of my life.
You can’t tell people about feelings like that. Not as a woman, not as a mother. I love my child, but I hate being a mother. I hated it from the first moment. Sometimes I even hate her for putting me in this role.
When i was diagnosed, my first thought was
to call her. I wanted her to stop whatever she was doing. I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to shout: Help me. Save me. I wanted to do that more than anything, but I didn’t. I’m proud of myself for that. I chose to protect her, even if only for a few hours.
I’ve done that so many times in my life. Picked up the phone and asked her to save me. Shouted at her bedroom door: Help, help me. I’ve done it time and time again, to this creature whom I’m supposed to protect, help, rescue. She was there the first time he beat me, and she was with me every time that followed. That’s how it was. Neither of us tried to protect her, hide the immensity of our failure, all that pain from her eyes. No, on the contrary.
Once she was at a sleepover with a friend from her soccer team, Malin. Our daughter had a life of her own, even though she was only ten years old. A world of her own. She’d bought chips and a bag of candy, all by herself. I dropped her off. I checked to make sure Malin’s parents were home.
“You don’t need to come in, Mama,” she said.
But I pushed her aside, gently, and stepped inside. In front of the TV, mattresses had been arranged and in the kitchen the table groaned with tacos. Someone had taken such care, someone was going to take good care of her. It tied my stomach into knots.
“You may not go outside after eight o’clock, do you hear me? I don’t care what the others are allowed to do, or if they do it anyway, you will not!”
She nodded, looked away. She wanted to get rid of me. She wanted to go into that other world, her own world.
“I’ll call and check on you!”
She nodded again. She would go out, I knew that. She would do whatever she felt like. As I would have done.
What We Owe Page 5
