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ALAWIYA SOBH my whole being was pure light. As I pressed my ear to the ground, I heard moans and tearful gasps coming from bones hidden away in near and distant layers of the Earth. I heard the weeping of the slain and kidnapped who had been buried alive. I heard cries of distress from women who had been raped and their throats slit. I saw children’s severed limbs longing to be knit together once more and folded in their mothers’ arms, their tiny hands never having developed to the point where they could grasp the dolls and toys that had awaited them on Earth. I heard countless stories of mothers in pain, and beautiful tales of love that brought joy to my heart, filling it with more light still. The stories were being told by waters that welled up from the depths of the Earth, as though love had been transformed into life-giving streams. But what I heard most frequently were stories of passionate love, followed by painful farewells that rang out from the Earth’s depths.The accounts meshed and intersected, as though every particle of soil was now a story that I was hearing together with every other. “Then I felt dizzy again, my sick brain about to explode. I pressed my ear more tightly to the ground in the hope of hearing about me. I heard my name and Youssef’s being repeated over and over. Then everything went silent. Before I’d heard my own story, my light went out, and I entered once more into my dark delirium. “I’d like to be able to remember my life in my mother’s womb. If my body could obey me and repeat its journey through love, dance, and life, its rhythms could tell the whole story. I don’t know how I ended up choosing you as the person to tell my story to.You aren’t the only person who’s urged me to talk! “One time, Anisa said to me: ‘Stories are what birth us. Stories are our mothers, Basma.’ “And now I want to be birthed again by my story.” Chapter Three “ The next morning, I trembled as I read about what the storm had done the day before. I tried to get Youssef to talk to me about the state he’d found me in, but he put me off. “However, I don’t want to do that to you. “I’ll finish the story for you, although words are like threads that 82 BANIPAL 70 – SPRING 2021

ALAWIYA SOBH get wrapped around each other. I think you really do want to know about my life, which makes me feel safe. It also strengthens my determination and my ability to express myself and remember the things I’ve been through. I need that kind of safety to be able to tell my story. It’s so odd to feel you need somebody neutral, or possibly even a total stranger or passer-by, in order to be able to tell all. But this way, you don’t feel you’re being censored or judged. I long to be able to hear my own voice, with you listening, and to hear my own confessions, totally uncut! “When I turn on the TV at night and see scenes of death, I think of a Hollywood horror flick I saw once where werewolves turned into wolves that came out of caves when the moon was out. I also think of a legend I read when I was a teenager about a man who turns into a wolf when the moon is full. Back then, I loved reading things like that, and I’d imagine I was experiencing them myself. I dream of writing a marvellous legend with my body some day. “But Youssef was never a wolf.To me he was the moon, and he did a number of paintings showing the moonlight reflected off the night sea. Missing him, and feeling hurt and abandoned, I headed yesterday morning for the seaside spot that had brought us together for the first time. “My eyes wandered lost in the blueness of the sea, causing me to forget my spasms.There was a small wave lapping against a boulder, the sound of which reminded me of our first kiss. “That was the first time Youssef had called me by name: Basma. Up until then, we hadn’t been close, and he’d addressed me as ‘Madame’ or some other formality. After finding out how crazy I was about a certain folksy seaside café, he’d invited me for breakfast there.We were sitting at a wooden table together and I was talking to him about a project that involved turning poetic texts into a dance performance. His interest piqued, he got excited about the idea and started asking me all sorts of questions. He encouraged me, telling me he believed in my talent, and offered me any sort of advice or help I might need in deciding which texts to use. His enthusiasm gave me a sense of warmth and intimacy that I’d never felt with anyone before. I noticed that poetry was a point of connection between us, and before I knew it, I was drowning him in details, even though I’m usually the type to keep mum about a project until it’s performed on stage. BANIPAL 70 – SPRING 2021 83

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ALAWIYA SOBH

my whole being was pure light. As I pressed my ear to the ground, I heard moans and tearful gasps coming from bones hidden away in near and distant layers of the Earth. I heard the weeping of the slain and kidnapped who had been buried alive. I heard cries of distress from women who had been raped and their throats slit. I saw children’s severed limbs longing to be knit together once more and folded in their mothers’ arms, their tiny hands never having developed to the point where they could grasp the dolls and toys that had awaited them on Earth. I heard countless stories of mothers in pain, and beautiful tales of love that brought joy to my heart, filling it with more light still. The stories were being told by waters that welled up from the depths of the Earth, as though love had been transformed into life-giving streams. But what I heard most frequently were stories of passionate love, followed by painful farewells that rang out from the Earth’s depths.The accounts meshed and intersected, as though every particle of soil was now a story that I was hearing together with every other.

“Then I felt dizzy again, my sick brain about to explode. I pressed my ear more tightly to the ground in the hope of hearing about me. I heard my name and Youssef’s being repeated over and over. Then everything went silent. Before I’d heard my own story, my light went out, and I entered once more into my dark delirium.

“I’d like to be able to remember my life in my mother’s womb. If my body could obey me and repeat its journey through love, dance, and life, its rhythms could tell the whole story. I don’t know how I ended up choosing you as the person to tell my story to.You aren’t the only person who’s urged me to talk!

“One time, Anisa said to me: ‘Stories are what birth us. Stories are our mothers, Basma.’

“And now I want to be birthed again by my story.”

Chapter Three

“

The next morning, I trembled as I read about what the storm had done the day before. I tried to get Youssef to talk to me about the state he’d found me in, but he put me off. “However, I don’t want to do that to you. “I’ll finish the story for you, although words are like threads that

82 BANIPAL 70 – SPRING 2021

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