In the depth of the Seven Seas
\nA Sinbad I became
\nAnd drowned at an early age
\nMy own sin was curiosity, freedom and hunger
\nTo know more
\nThe full moon drew back
\nAnd the arrows of it thrown, hit me home
\nMy heart ached
\nBurdened with memories of them<\/p>\n
Arrival<\/strong><\/p>\n The black taxi stopped in front of the revolving door that led inside. The driver was silent for seconds to reorganize the flow of his words before the actual utterance.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is Henderson Hall. Welcome to Newcastle!\u201d<\/p>\n He smiled and handed me the receipt.<\/p>\n In Syria, he would have asked me all those annoyingly curious questions about what I study and for how long, if I had friends or family here and whether I needed any help carrying the bags to my room. But he didn\u2019t ask anything and I didn\u2019t volunteer talking. I did ask if he was a local, and I knew he wasn\u2019t from his features. Then I was silent again.<\/p>\n \u201c17 pounds, please\u201d<\/p>\n I paced slowly towards the entrance walking like a fat penguin hampered by the three bags and the quilted jacket. The gloves I put on arrival were torn in one place leaving a river mark; there was a red line across each palm very clear after I took the gloves off. If Mom was here, she could have said: \u201cIt\u2019s the simple process of friction. This is normal if you don\u2019t change bags regularly.\u201d<\/p>\n She just didn\u2019t say that now as I waited at the door. Literally, I waited for the door to revolve and suck me in. It was 7:30 p.m. and silence ruled the place. I could still hear some people inside, but I was scared to enter the new \u2018home\u2019. I was lonely; no moon in the sky, and that was all I knew.<\/p>\n I turned the key in the whole one time only. I didn\u2019t want to feel the shock falling on me so I put the right foot first and slowly announced my arrival: Assalam Alaikum. The first thing I saw was the bed. Only the bed and no one to answer my greetings back!<\/p>\n I closed the door again and turned on a small lamp by the bed. I sat in a praying position to feel the emptiness to recall his warmth.<\/p>\n \u201cDad \u2026 how many do you think were lost in the accident today?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s just not talk about this while we eat, shall we? It\u2019s not healthy\u201d<\/p>\n The hours I spent tumbling on my bed, reading Pablo Coelho and still not being able to sleep were heavy. That bed was warm; too warm to sleep in.<\/p>\n \u201cDad, I don\u2019t want to go to England\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat! Why did you bring me here then?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry Dad. Very much sorry\u201d<\/p>\n Eight people died that day, 14 were sent to the ICU. We were saved.<\/p>\n Just a week ago I carried another list of disappointments up north. Aleppo received me with empty hands; it was a mutual understanding between me and my city. The British council and the Visa Centre were closed and there was nothing I could do. The scrap of paper flapped in my face marking the defeat. Three words signed the end of the statement: \u2018Until Further Notice\u2019.<\/p>\n This bed received me bluntly. I was tired of all the struggle and sweat, of arriving two months late than all the students here. My fully packed bags and the labor to avoid the strange looks of the old residents tired me. The bed was another merciless element; to receive me so coldly. I wasn\u2019t too shocked to see it was naked, no sheets, no pillow, no nothing. I was just disappointed. I slept the night well, though, covering my whole with pieces I carried from home. I nestled near the radiator and hummed Dolly patron\u2019s Coat of Many Colours in a low voice. No one could hear me and I didn\u2019t need any more light; I knew that no one will be here anyway.<\/p>\n Intoxicated into Daydreaming<\/strong><\/p>\n Task one: get a quilt (done) On the airplane last week, I searched for an empty paper or any vacancy to write on. I stopped searching when I saw the pink handkerchief a Japanese friend gave me. It lost the smell it had before I departed. I wrote down a verse from the Quran: \u201cAnd He is with you wherever you are\u201d. On the airplane, I tried harder to hide the tears; looking In the dream, the lady in the airlines company said something before handing me back the signed paper and the ticket bill.<\/p>\n Her blue eyes stared with ugliness and her very big mouth said: \u201cLet them taste of your feet!\u201d<\/p>\n She held the blue pen \u2013 the same she used a week ago to write the same bill\u2013 and crossed out the word Damascus; twice. Later, Dad told me that he paid 26000 Syrian Pounds, the equal amount of 250 pounds, to amend the simple mistake of using the pen instead of reprinting the whole shame.<\/p>\n Today, I was supposed to open my bank account. I took the bus to Eldon Square and lost myself among the crowds. It was two weeks before Christmas and I was the least homesick wretched I could be. I arrived at the bank after questioning and walking round in circles. The lady with the name tag that read \u2018Jane\u2019 but meant nothing specific to me asked for my passport. In return, my ID should have meant nothing specific, nothing special to her.<\/p>\n \u201cOh! You\u2019re Syrian!\u201d<\/p>\n The lady at the bank with the name tag that meant nothing to me apologized repeatedly. She tried to explain it in simple words so that I don\u2019t stumble on two difficulties, her Geordie accent and the banking terms.<\/p>\n \u201cYou see, Darlin\u2019, your country and our country are not good friends at the moment. It\u2019s funny how I am saying this, but any transaction, money transfers, between\u2026 I mean sending or receiving any amount of money from or to Syria will not be possible now. Any other place in the world will be fine, but not Syria for now, unfortunately. I\u2019m very sorry\u201d. Last week\u2019s dream repeated itself to torture me amazingly, the whole of it.<\/p>\n The Entrance to the South<\/strong><\/p>\n Dad kept repeating the same verse over and over. To me he was either being possessed or turned handicapped all of a sudden; lost his tongue abilities after the crashing sound. We were pulled out, I couldn\u2019t recall how now. It was pitch black even before he buried my head in the corner where his chest and left arm joined. Under his armpit, I hid my head forcedly.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t look\u201d, he ordered with the voice of a scared child. I never heard my father talk like that. He kept repeating \u201cya lateef, ya sattar\u201d and his heartbeats went abnormal. \u201cNo, Dad. I want to see\u201d<\/p>\n The prayers on his tongue were mispronounced and the sound they made was a marble changing colors and rolling down an empty street.<\/p>\n \u201cDad, I want to SEE!\u201d<\/p>\n He kept me close to him, but let my head free. Half scared I peeped. A not-yet-dead man was flopping down the road between the remains of the cars. Another was struggling out; blood running and flesh ripped of the shoulders and the chest. Cattle \u201cDad\u2026 why did they\u2026? There\u2019s a dead man calling \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Dad put his palm on my mouth now.<\/p>\n \u201cshhhhh!!! \u2026\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n I clutch him, pull him closer and squeeze it all out.<\/p>\n \u201cBaba\u2026 Baba\u2026 why?\u201d<\/p>\n I hush in the dark place my dad gave me again. The teeth start to tick tock against my will grinding as I gripped harder.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t look. Let\u2019s just go\u201d<\/p>\n I don\u2019t know how much I cried after that. A liter or two\u2026 ten! I didn\u2019t know. I was ever bad at math, bad at violence scenes in movies, and I was just stupefied.<\/p>\n The North and its Blues<\/strong><\/p>\n I was stupefied. Another flashback fit hit me as odd things kept following me even here. Here in England, news of assault, news of disappearance, racial attacks, strange deaths kept following me. Even here.<\/p>\n Zoe put her palm horizontally across her mouth, stared at my reaction from behind her dim glasses. I knew something was wrong and will come out soon. The shock made my mouth open; I couldn\u2019t finish my meal.<\/p>\n What do you mean she fell from Claremont Tower? Was it suicide? Did someone push her?<\/p>\n Silence.<\/p>\n Zoe tried to explain in simpler English, her Chinese eyes on the verge of tears. No one knew the truth; no pictures were there in The Courier when the dead girl took a small corner up the front page. Ben was silent, with his red ears, and alarmed. I felt sick and left the dining table to the loo.<\/p>\n The next day in the postgraduate suite Enas said that the last thing seen of a Bahraini student was a jacket laid on the railings of the Tyne. Just one day before Christmas. Enas turned her lower lip inside out. She tilted her head and sighed out: \u201cImagine what his Mom could do when she finds out!\u201d<\/p>\n I decided to stay with another friend during Christmas. Henderson Hall was too empty and too dull; all students were either touring Britain or visiting their families. In Fatima\u2019s house, I turned the TV on fishing for news about home. Fatima told me to take the tea to the table. I did it quickly and silently. I turn the voice louder; here I would feel safe and happier. Tonight there would be loads of shows about Christmas sales and the Boxing Blessings. An Indian student was shot dead in the head and the police did not eliminate a racist motive. This was in Manchester, but no one couldn\u2019t disbelieve it.<\/p>\n On Boxing Day, two others were shot in London, Oxford Street. One died, the other badly injured.<\/p>\n Fatima imitated the receptionist from the other room. \u201cWhat was that, Daalin?\u201d I smiled at her as we ate.<\/p>\n Before I went back to the Halls, I took a silent walk by the Tyne. I was determined to face my fear and daydreaming. But I hated the chili-flavored wind and I hated the lonely walk to the river; too self-conscious and afraid to lose my way back to Bus Number 1. The seagulls hovered over the twinkling surface of the Tyne mocking me in a nasty way. Their voices and hunger disgusted me. I sprinkled bread crumbs in a circle. They mounted me like a statue, standing still for some seven minutes, but the seagulls ate away my fear. Relieved and moved by this pause of time, I cried. I couldn\u2019t write poetry, I couldn\u2019t write about home when I was miles away. The stress was mounting as the deadline to hand in the assignments approached. I was yet determined to break some rules and leave no trace of me.<\/p>\n I was too desperate for a change of air so I left Newcastle for two days; I wanted to feel that scared again. I took the journey to London on a cheap yellowish bus. But then, nothing changed. I still lingered on false imaginations and faulty news I read on my phone. I walked empty streets and saw empty faces and on the second day I decided to return. On the way up north to the place I call home for now, I lost too many things back there. Two of my relatives passed away; two uncles. A cousin was taken to the place metaphorically called \u2018the place behind the sun\u2019 which is nowhere known to anyone. Two months later, just two weeks from now he was released. The place behind the sun disfigured his facial features. My sister said that I would still recognize him when I go back. A friend is still there. I wonder what the sun and all that lies behind it could do to him now. Whether he\u2019s alive or\u2026 sun burnt.<\/p>\n On that way up north, leaving Homs and the tanks hidden behind brownish bags of cement and sand, the bus stopped suddenly. It was the third time now. We were closer to Hama and another flock of khaki tanks were visible in spite of the darkness. The front lights of the bus streamed into the officers\u2019 eyes penetrating them; merciless lights. I wasn\u2019t afraid until he came up onto the bus. Only one of them was sent up. He screamed \u201c IDs\u201d at us and we all obeyed.<\/p>\n \u201cAre from Homs, anyone from Hama?\u201d<\/p>\n My heart ached\u2026<\/p>\n Silence.<\/p>\n He went easy on the ladies so he didn\u2019t stare too much into my ID. No one satisfied his thirst for a fight, not even verbally. We all sat our seats back and waited for him to get down. He wasn\u2019t more than 25 years or something, but even Dad looked a bit worried at the sight of the long weapon he was fixing over his shoulder. I am not good at arms names, but it might have been an AK-47. Then the too young officer went down, disappointed as I was. He said the word \u201cCLEAR!\u201d to the outside and we were flowing on the road again.<\/p>\n We drove off again; towards the other human barrier ahead of us, to Idleb. Not here now. The A1 to the North seemed a longer road without him.<\/p>\n Dad went through series of blood-pressure changes and dizziness. I could do nothing but turn away and cry. On those narrow roads I developed the skill of one-eye-dropping. Dad sitting on the aisle seat to my left, I would lean against the window, 30 degrees between my head and shoulder, and let go of all the tears to the right. I managed my one-eye tear dropping well; not the memory fits yet.<\/p>\n I wondered what I could tell Ms. Wilkinson about me when I meet her the first time. But that might be uncomfortable for both of us. I might as well just laugh and tell her I\u2019m terribly fine, now that I can imagine very little about her possible reactions: boredom, shock, indifference, serious sympathy, or speechlessness. I was almost sure she\u2019d ask me about Syria on our first meeting and I\u2019d just say\u2026 or I\u2019d rather keep my mouth shut.<\/p>\n I was told to.<\/p>\n Those rides always ended in black, night falling on me and him, clutching to each other\u2019s hands and running home from the bus station. It took 20 minutes to be home, but still, it always ended in darkness.<\/p>\n The Way Back Up North<\/strong><\/p>\n On the A1, the skyline clouds appeared far away from my window, but I could still make out the line of the vapor trail with my forefinger on the windowpane. Soon we\u2019ll be headed into the narrow road after the security check point and the road will narrow itself more. It was used mainly for cattle and motorbikes, but now two-way moving lorries are heading north and south; their way in and out. Further away the skyline becomes fader, spirited away. The vapor trail lost hope on survival, too.<\/p>\n I\u2019m not there anymore, so why am I dreaming?<\/p>\n Every minute on the A1 to Newcastle kept me tied, firmly stuck to my chair and always on the alert. The roads that lead INTO and OUT OF are confusing, aren\u2019t they? The human mind didn\u2019t come up with roads with no clear destinations yet. How come they Don\u2019t stop please, you don\u2019t know what can happ\u2026<\/p>\n The yellow cheap bus stopped suddenly and I was shushed by the snow flaking at the window. I closed the eyelids and squeezed the balls in.<\/p>\n I\u2019m not going to die here. I\u2019m not going to die here.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t manage my flashback fits well and I squeezed more. Nothing happened. Silence and snow made a perfect purification song and I drowned.<\/p>\n Mr. Driver, what\u2019s the matter?<\/p>\n The passengers started mumbling; \u201cSnow!… Oh look, the Snow!\u201d<\/p>\n I opened my eyes slowly still afraid to wake up and see all is red.<\/p>\n I wiped the foggy window like a half-lived dream, one hand mark pleading for oblivion.<\/p>\n It flaked down answering my questioned prayer.<\/p>\n Am I dead already?<\/p>\n I sniffed and sniffed harder. I am well-trained. I didn\u2019t cry from both sockets. Just on my right side, a small stream of salty dreams made a line across the window, flowing down from the hand mark. The cheap yellow bus started to move slowly among the other cars on the A1.<\/p>\n Snow!<\/p>\n Soon, it was all white. I was \u2018home\u2019 for now.<\/p>\n This story came 2nd in the Newcastle Centre for the Literary Arts International Student Short Story Competition 2012<\/a>.<\/p>\n A report on all of the entries by International Student Marleen Van Os<\/a> can be read here<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" In the depth of the Seven Seas A Sinbad I became And drowned at an early age My own sin was curiosity, freedom and hunger…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":757,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[6],"tags":[122,161,152,80],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/498"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=498"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/498\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1014,"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/498\/revisions\/1014"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/757"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=498"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=498"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/archive.nclacommunity.org\/content\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=498"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nTask two: get to know people (done)
\nTask three: get to wake up (not sure what\u2019s a dream?)<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n
\ndown at my feet and counting silently the toes. One, two, twenty and then I counted again; three rounds. I pulled the headscarf tighter around my face squeezing the thoughts inside again, dried the drops with the inky handkerchief and fell asleep. I won\u2019t be home for another year and 4 months.<\/p>\n
\nI took my passport and smiled at her, hoped that Jane and I were \u2018friends\u2019 at least. Hoping!
\nShe said it herself; it was a mere political issue and we had nothing to deal with it so I nodded and left still half-pleased.<\/p>\n
\nThe palm he laid on my shoulder for a while started to comfort me. I felt it shivering when he patted: \u201cDon\u2019t be scared\u2026, are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\nscreamed for a minute or two and then silence ruled over us all. I saw the police men running the opposite way. Their long guns dangled on their backs, the mouth of each machine pointed up to heaven. They started calling someone on their pocket phones and radios. They ran the opposite way!<\/p>\n
\n\u201cShe was a Chinese student, but I didn\u2019t know her. Alex just told me but I\u2019m not sure it was suicide… I can\u2019t imagine how her parents will receive the news!\u201d<\/p>\n
\nWhat do you mean he\u2019s disappeared? You mean someone could have harmed him, kidnapped him?<\/p>\n
\nI turned off the TV and told her nothing. It\u2019s just not very good to watch TV while eating supper, is it? It\u2019s not very healthy after all!<\/p>\n
\nThose repeated visits between the capital and Aleppo in the North were a pain, to Dad specially. He used to close his eyes and lay back most of the time.<\/p>\n
\n\u201c How are you?\u201d She might say and I\u2019d answer: Long story!<\/p>\n
\nstill cannot make up a road that can lead anywhere? I pity the limitedness of it all. With every minute I kept daydreaming, I was revealed.<\/p>\n