Yes.. It’s Me.. Ati

Omaima Abdullah

Translated by: Ramadan Ahmed

My name is Ati. I am nineteen years old, maybe more or less. That was the estimate of the nurse who oversaw my treatment and recovery. She said this despite my features appearing older than her estimate.

• “Sadness adds years. Throw away your sorrowful face, Ati. Don’t be sad, and thank God we are here with you now.”

She always reminds me to be grateful. This nurse has a gentleness I’ve never witnessed before, with hands full of compassion and mercy.

• “What happened cannot be forgotten.”

• “But you are here now, among us. Be at ease.”

As she said, I am here now, but alone after being with my companions and in my home, far from them and everything. I miss the scent of oranges and the taste of butter in the delicious blue dough. Its flavour never left my tongue. A small piece would fill my mouth with the taste of happiness. Unlike any other woman in the village, my grandmother excelled in making it. She added ground rice, millet, dried orange peel, and sometimes powdered… in proportions only she knew. Now, my memory is only of my grandmother and the remaining taste of her sweets, the scent of oranges, and spring water.

Sitting by a narrow stream, I look at it, watching the movements of my face on its surface. I try to estimate my age. I dip my hand and stir the water, and the features blur and become unclear, showing no age. The slow movement of the water folds the features as life folds stories, tales, and people.

It is very important to remember before continuing to read that I once had the heart of a girl, pure as that spring water, full of goodness, clear, giving, beating with passion, dreams, curiosity, adventure, and other things. I saw nothing of life but my dreams.

What I write here is not a story from my imagination. It is mine.

Because one single story among hundreds that happen to us defines who we are and cannot be forgotten. These stories grow with us, either granting us life or extinguishing us, remaining like a tattoo on the heart’s wall until the grave, eroding from within, leaving marks. Life seeps through them like sand through fingers, and the face acquires dignity before its time.

The place where I sit is five days’ bus travel from my village, Boldong, the place of my upbringing, a high place not easily reached. I may not return soon, maybe never.

People are usually curious about others’ stories, especially the most tragic ones, or those who do not like to talk about their lives, preferring to withdraw and occupy themselves with everyday life matters. However, the habit of village folks is to chatter, and their evening gatherings are only enjoyable with the moon and each other’s stories. This is their entertainment, and the stories do not stop at the actual event but are embellished to keep them interesting, present, and exciting. Thus, a story takes its entire course in the alleys, at house doors, in front of Uncle Jadin’s fruit stand, under trees in early evening gatherings, and under the moon on sandy hills until another story comes along to occupy people and make them forget the previous one. I do not expect my story to be forgotten, so I will not return.

I assure you that I will tell my story truthfully here, perhaps because I have recovered and time has passed since the incident, or maybe because I feel that there are girls like me waiting to know how to deal with their stories, which they carry like a rock that blocks their future and hope. And hope is the lifeline that must keep beating.

But it’s fine if others besides girls read this book.

I need to take you back a bit to know the place of my upbringing, my village, Boldong. It was a permanently green spot, generously giving, sweet with fruits, enjoyable with oranges, bananas, and mangoes, its trees shady, intertwined, and massive. Its paths were adorned with colourful flowers. We hung on “Grand Mountain,” the master of the mountains there, with its ever-flowing, clear, and pure spring. It rained a lot in our place. All houses were made of straw and stone, with no doors. We didn’t need them. The dwellings overlooked each other, and we roamed freely without fear. There was nothing to fear, no biting insects or stinging snakes. In a way, we were all relatives and kin. We were not wealthy with money but poor enough that we could move anywhere without effort if wealth meant money. We didn’t know it. Everything we needed was in front of us, free and available to everyone. Thus, we were at ease, with no way to know world news except what travellers brought us. Despite that, there were no secrets in the village. All houses knew what went on and what grains were stored in each house.

I knew nothing beyond this small area defined by an invisible fence whose boundaries everyone knew, especially us girls. Beauty was everything that expanded the chest, yet my chest wasn’t delighted with all this generous, multicoloured bounty extending to the edge of the dwellings and beyond, nor with the scent of oranges spreading in the air with the first dawn. If I had been more mature, I would have known that gratitude was due for blessings to remain and continue giving. If I had known the world, my chest would have expanded with joy and gratitude. Situations can change instantly, and blessings disappear as if they never were. Gratitude binds blessings and keeps them. I always felt a strong voice calling me from afar, leading me towards some destiny, another place waiting for my arrival, an eye on a beautiful face winking at me. My heart was filled with adventure and dreams of secret departures or other heart turbulence. My heart was like the spring, generous, pure, and vibrant.

Yet, the incident happened, and life scattered, turning the spring into a dark spot. Sometimes, things end with no return and lives never return to how they were.

One morning during the month of fasting, I went out without intending to. After their insistence, I went with some girls, heading to the main market to buy Eid items, as Eid was upon us. We, all Muslims, celebrated it and attended its congregational prayer in the large square at the village entrance. Its morning was joyful with praises and chants. Everyone tested their voices on the loudspeaker. It was the only opportunity to stand before the speakers. The elders allowed the boys to chant without scolding them, and they lined up before Sheikh Musa, who let them in successively.

• “Hurry up, Ati, or we will leave you.”

• “Coming.”

From inside came my grandmother’s voice:

• “Don’t forget the dates and sumac necklaces.”

We didn’t have dates; they came from the far north with traders. Their choice fell on the fruit market behind a small cypress grove. We called it the fruit market, delighted to go there as a luxury we felt during the orange-picking season at the end of each year, enjoying its taste and honey sweetness.

 

It takes half a day to reach the market from our home. The market was my main interest every Eid. It sold many colourful clothes, various-sized summit necklaces, and handwoven handbags with coloured ropes. I loved the large-beaded rings and circular gold earrings. The girls excitedly told me that some passing traders, coinciding with market day, had laid out their goods at the market entrance in celebration of the upcoming Eid. The road was beautiful despite its roughness and winding nature. The sound of our steps on the gravel was lovely, with children’s screams and play, the chirping of birds on both sides of the road, and the mixed sounds of my grandfather’s cows mooing and his sheep bleating filling our ears. His house was on the market path. The road was long, yet we felt energetic despite fasting. I led them enthusiastically, unaware that I was not walking the market path but my destiny’s path. People walk their destined paths unknowingly because everything is in God’s hands; nothing happens by chance.

We entered the market with them, us from the north side and them from the opposite side where the traders’ stalls were. A group of masked men on many horses uprooted the market stalls like a hurricane. They carried large, terrifying-sounding objects that they raised high and pointed into the air, screaming to instil fear. They spread among the rusty market stalls, destroying everything in their path. The place turned upside down. They tore down the hanging fabrics with their swords, and the horses trampled them. They were in front of us in a flash. How did we not hear them before entering the market!?

Who are they? And who dares to do this during the fasting month?

I looked at them as they looked towards the traders, commanding people in a strange dialect. The girls fled from around me, as did the people. Something made me unable to move, a heaviness in my feet that pinned me in place. Nothing is worse than the feeling of fear overwhelming you from within, like a flood pouring out of you. My body felt like a mountain, my skin sweating. The air took my headscarf away, and my heart flew. My gaze became lost as I tried to gulp air with my mouth, almost disappearing from fear. My voice was trapped in my throat, and I was trembling. Darkness suddenly engulfed me, and I could see nothing. The market became a big black spot, a dark hole in the mountain.

Out of the chaos, he emerged before me, staring from his horse. His face was covered with a patterned cloth, only his eyes visible. He struck me with a long black whip, shouting words I didn’t understand. I couldn’t swallow, didn’t feel the whip as it hit my chest, passing my face and shoulders. The place suddenly turned into a mass of rising smoke, the space filled with terrifying sounds, and fire spread throughout the market. Panic, screams, chaos, and the cracking of whips in the air ensued. The traders resisted the theft of their goods with their own weapons but were met with more violence and brutality from the attackers. There was no respect for children, women, or anyone.

I was both far and near at the same moment, far from my companions, very close to danger, breathing in the fire. The black devil’s whip lashed me despite his fair skin. His face and head were covered with a cloth wrapped around his neck. His eyes were burning coals, his words screamed, and his hand was strong and striking. He slapped my face hard, making me fall and drop what I held. My eyes blurred, and I lost my sight in the flames. I couldn’t see anything, only hearing their screams. Defeat in broad daylight, breaking under the sun, and slaughter on the gravel.

I didn’t even have the strength to ask myself,

• “What does he want from me?”

He dismounted, grabbed me, lifted me effortlessly, and threw me to the ground. On the ground, among the small broken rocks and sharp gravel, he began to take my life away. What happened was beyond imagination in its humiliation.

Only here does helplessness have a meaning, weakness a voice, and the devil a name, a hand, and a breath. His breath felt like a blast from hell, scorching and blinding. I was helpless, lost, as if another soul hovered around this body like vultures in the sky watching their prey. I looked up at those high vultures above him while lying on the gravel, my spirit soaring with the vultures, my body waiting for it.

The sky darkened despite the sun. The small shops melted in their screams, and my heart bled before my body did. It was the fear of fate. Like a sharp blade, it split my life, separating the past from me. As if what was happening wasn’t real, I wasn’t there; I was with the storm and flood and the loss of honour. If only my eyes could cry to remind me, I was still alive. If only I could weep, but amid calamity, we often fail to hold onto our humanity. We become someone else, unrecognisable to ourselves.

One incident can shake the universe like a vigorously shaken bottle of penicillin. It was as if the universe itself was now that bottle of penicillin, violently shaken. They left after using me like a rag and abandoning me like a decomposing carcass. If only the ground would open beneath me or the sky would lift me up.

My name is Ati. It is still Ati, but I am no longer her. Some stations in life are hard, perhaps impossible, to return to. I became someone else, and I had to be in a different place. I had to carry my fate and endure it. I have carried it like a ring for those moments for years, a black ring resembling that day or a black day resembling the ring.

I pulled myself together and stood up. They had robbed the market, the traders, and my life, and then they left, leaving chaos and evil everywhere. It was not my time to die.

• I won’t return; I will surely die if I do. Who would accept me now that the devil’s touch has forever tainted me? My grandfather will never accept this shame. Surely, everyone will know about the incident—everyone in the village and the neighbouring ones. They took my youth on their horses.

I am still a girl despite the devil’s hand. I am nineteen years old. I will start my life anew here, even though I long for my grandmother and my village, Boldong, the taste of fragrant butter, the scent of oranges at dawn, the mountain, its pure spring, my grandmother’s house, and the path to the fruit market.