ولا كلمة واحدة مهدورة

Not a Word in Vain

I was sitting in front of my laptop watching a movie. A guy in his forties was telling a girl in her twenties that they needed to part ways because he had a feeling that, if they continued like this, he would love her. I can’t remember if he said he said he would fall in love with her or if he would love her, but the question concerned me more than the film itself. She started down the stairs, and the narrator said it was at that exact moment she realized she loved him, and so began their relationship. 

She stopped on the second step down, and I came to understand how every person has a life that belongs to them alone and which cannot be shared with anyone. Their taste in people, clothes, literature, music, food, what type of looks they find attractive, or if they like the volume up or down. They’re all likes and dislikes of one single person.

Two people can meet and maybe even get to know one another, but their lives will never truly merge. It’s also when they meet that love and even hate can happen, because the existence of one is always bound by the possibility of the other.

I realize now, probably for the millionth time, that I love Samarra and that the greatest wish I have is for us to meet. But I’ve been shutting my eyes to the fact that for one of us it’ll end up in hate, while the other remains suspended in love. 

I pulled out my phone and wrote her a message as brief as the moment of realization I just had: “So, what now?” I deleted it and wrote: “I love you,” but it was just like the one before that, and whatever came after it as well. I kept on writing and deleting until I ran out of words and got up to walk. I needed to tire myself. It went on like this until fear gripped my heart, and when I lifted my head I didn’t know where I was. It was an endless walk, life suspended like a limbo had materialized and become real. It’s gone to shit, but that’s just the way it is. How else could it be?

I decided to face the unknown, and drove to Samarra’s house. It was almost one in the morning, and I thought her family must be sleeping. After carelessly parking the car, I walked towards her house. The lights were still on, so perhaps they were all gathered in the living room, but it was impossible to make anything out through the heavy curtains. 

Light drops of rain were falling, and ten minutes had already passed. I knew I could ring the doorbell and see Samarra. But I just stood there, motionless, not realizing that those ten minutes had been a daze, triggered by the girl in the movie’s backward glance and her decision not to descend the stairs. All I grasped was the dread of those minutes, and that their passing would change nothing. So I rang the doorbell and waited. 

Samarra opened the door, and we stood face to face with neither of us uttering as much as a sound for a minute or two. I don’t know exactly for how long we stood like that, but what I do know is that we still hadn’t said a word when she grabbed me by the collar and took me inside, eyes burning. 

“Why did you come here?” 

Before I could answer, she told me to whisper. I let my eyes wander along the long, dimly lit hall. The living room was to my left, and the rooms lined up in sequence along the corridor, which seemed wider than it was under the deceptive light. I looked back to Samarra and told her I needed to write. She turned towards my trembling fingers, so I covered them with my other hand, creating an illusion of confidence.

I said I needed to write, and that there was no room for discussion. She took hold of my trembling hand and led me to the living room, seating me on a couch hidden from view so that no one walking down the corridor would see me unless they entered the room.

She ordered me not to move, got me a glass of water and told me to speak. 

“What do you want me to tell you?” 

She wanted me to explain why I had come. To tell her about whatever it was that couldn’t wait until morning, and about the scene I nearly caused, or the one I had already made. I swore it hadn’t been my intention to cause a scene but that the matter couldn’t wait. Everything had to be written. If not, my head would explode. 

I began to tell her about how much I hate what writers claim about writing being some sort of therapy. It’s a lie. Or maybe not a lie exactly, but a lack of understanding: an idea tossed around just because it seems so obvious. I swear to God writing isn’t therapy, and I don’t swear in vain. But if we’re to attribute it to something, let’s say it’s closer to falling apart. Some taps on a button and you’re 
you’re pushed over the edge of a cliff – literally.

She was more resolute  this time, and told me that if I didn’t quit fooling around she’d kick me out. My fingers began to tremble even more, so I asked if I could light a cigarette. She went to crack open the window a little, just like she always used to answer questions with actions, problems with solutions, and love with denial. 

I pulled out a piece of paper from my pocket, only to find her shaking her head. 

“Talk to me,” she said, “you can’t show up out of nowhere in the middle of the night and expect me to do whatever makes you happy. Talk to me, and I’ll listen.”

I began to tell her about the dream I had last night, from the beginning up until this very moment. The dream explains everything, I said, and she almost seemed convinced. 

In the dream, she had killed herself by hanging six years earlier, and although I was aware that it wasn’t real, it felt so vivid. The news had been on everyone’s lips until it settled on a birthday post where her loved ones declared that she had found a home in their hearts. Or in the heart – singular. It made no difference. 

You said hi to me, I remember it clearly. It was like I hadn’t forgotten your voice as you used to greet me: the “hello” which was so inseparable from the mental image I had of your face. All of the sudden I forgot what you sounded like. I tried to remember, but I couldn’t, and the only thing that remained was the image of your face. I searched the internet, checked the accounts of your family, friends and acquaintances. Nothing – your voice had vanished into thin air. 

I thought about the eternal return (or is it reincarnation?) and that someone somewhere on this earth must have inherited your voice, so I began making plans to find that person, before finding you personally.  

I was with Rayana at what seemed like a coffeehouse. You were sitting beside us, but something in the way you looked had changed. You were wearing a purple suit jacket longer and slimmer than what I remember you in usually, and even your face seemed longer. I knew it was you, but I couldn’t, and didn’t want to make sure of it, because I had spent six years crying for you more than I’d ever cried for anyone. What can a person do with themself when the very reason for their sorrow suddenly disappears? 

I would’ve died of despair if you were actually alive. 

The day passed and I didn’t tell Rayana anything. Your new face had begun to replace the old one, and my world turned upside down. Everything was hazy and I became obsessed with searching for just so I could ask where you had been all this time. 

The following day, I met Ghalib who, for all his flaws, had never been lacking in bravery. I told him about the lost voice, the face that had replaced the old one and about the world that had undergone a secret change that everyone felt but no one understood. He said he’s got me, and when he saw my confusion he repeated:

“I’m saying I’ve got you,” striking his chest. 

He left me without any further explanation, and about an hour later he sent me a clip of her, of you. With the same purple outfit, stretched out face, and features that, however they turned, reminded only of what once was. He asked you bluntly:

“Are you Samarra?”

You nodded yes, and he continued to ask you questions. From your replies, I understood that you had become addicted to drugs, and that the only way to avert scandal had been to declare you dead in the harshest and most difficult of ways. No one could have known. 

“Not even Husam?” 

“Not even Husam.”

I heard the answer, broke down in tears, and kept on crying until I found myself knocking on your door. I had to ask: Why? 

“Why do you insist on turning me into a victim when all I know in this life is self-hatred? For all my weaknesses, however great, I always push through and pull myself back up again. Why don’t you love me?”

My fingers slipped from their hold. Trembling. On any other day it would never have happened. Fingers don’t act alone, but pass their vibrations to the feet, then to the chest, which in moments like these struggles to draw breath. Then the vibrations reach the head, where words arrive in sound and image, piling up endlessly, making it impossible to follow: knocks, schools, my father, my mother, interrogation, war, boycott, damned bastard. Even the word “with,” when it clings to emotion: with affection, with love, with respect, with sincerity, with anger, with longing, with defeat, with Husam, with Ghalib, with Rayana, with Samarra. Until when? And to what end? 

I got up from my seat, my whole body trembling. Without looking her in the eyes, I made for the door, repeating:

“I need to write. I need to write everything. Not a single word in vain. Not a single word.”