Memories of the Drowned Whale
The Funeral
Sarajevo, 2016
Mama is dead. She died peacefully in her bed as I lay numb by her side. I felt nothing when the bastard came and robbed her soul away. Not even a faint cold or freezing whiff of air. I just rose up to go to the toilet. My bladder was about to explode, and I could hardly open my eyes. When I came back, she had a frightened look on her face, as though she had been quarrelling with death to let her be, let her stay with me.
“When I die, nothing will torment me as much as departing from you,” she often said and I often fell silent. Now, there’s nothing much to say or chatter about. My mama died, of an average breast cancer that took a stroll from her breasts to her lungs and parts of her brain. She died slowly over the course of five full years. I watched and could do nothing. I could only stare into her eyes and say, “No, you won’t die,” steadily and numbly like a broken dummy. Such lies often left a sour taste on my tongue. Sometimes it used to alter from sour to smoky like the taste of burnt tobacco with the unbearable scent of rust. That’s what my lies tasted like. Now, as I sit alone, I recall it all. How exactly I used to distract myself from the fact of her inevitable death. I recall the thoughts and silly fantasies I used to have. Surprisingly they weren’t sexual at all. And when at last she died, I didn’t cry. Didn’t even shed a tear during the washing of her body, and afterwards felt nothing. After the burial, I returned home with my uncle. We didn’t even exchange words of condolences. And yet, he had been generous enough to hire a 12-year-old boy and his blind grandpa, and have them crouch by her fresh tomb to recite phrases of Quran. Once we arrived home, we shared a cup of cold coffee. He sipped a few drops and left me the rest. I seized the moment and poured some brandy in it.
“Nadia!” he said.
“Yes, Uncle?”
“I have to go. Are you going to be okay alone?”
“Yes. I need to sleep.”
“Have some rest now and I’ll join you in the evening,” he said.
Only this and nothing more. I counted the words I’d uttered and began to feel overwhelmed thinking of what to say during the evening, when he came back, if he did come. I roamed the hallway like a wretched amateur actor, seeking desperately to memorize the right phrases. It felt both absurd and shameful; or rather shameful in an absurd way. The cigarettes were all gone! Even the ones I’d hidden away and never dared to smoke while she was there, lying feebly in her bed, struggling to take her breath.
The Host
Paris, 2017
Uncle was generous enough to let me study photography in Paris despite his huge disdain for the city. A year after my mama died, I was invited to work as a cinematographer in a French film. It was strange for me to go back to Paris during one of the crowded summer seasons, just a few months before Cannes starts. It was hard for me to find a room till I ran into Pierre, a young staff member who happened to work with me on the same film. Pierre was kind enough to let me spend my early nights in Paris with him until I found a vacant flat. During these days, I became familiar with Pierre who was quite fond of history. He used to tell me tales of dictatorships in Spain and Argentina and brag about how intellectual he was. One night, I got so bored of his tales and offered to tell him a different kind. For some reason, I recalled a tale from my childhood about a whale who drowned. Although Pierre was surprised, he sat down like a good boy, with eyes wide open and listened carefully.
“Once upon a time there was a pretty little blonde girl, and that pretty little blonde girl had a book of fairytales, each beginning with once upon a time and it wasn’t a printing fault or literary error. In this rare book of fairytales—in one particular tale, to be exact—the great blue whale drowns. He sinks to the bottom of the ocean, without any spears stabbed in his back or failure in his lungs. That concerns the whale. As for the girl, well it would be nearly fair to say she led a quiet life.
He sinks to the bottom of the ocean, without any spears stabbed in his back or failure in his lungs.
“Now, listen carefully, Pierre because I won’t repeat my options twice. Would you rather hear the story of the drowning whale or the blonde girl’s adventures which are shockingly sexually explicit? Think carefully because once I begin narrating I won’t switch to the whale. What is that? You need a moment? Take one. But just till my final cigarette withers and the magical grey smoke fades away. Is that so? You chose the girl’s story? Fine then.”
The Birth
Sarajevo, 1990
I was born in Sarajevo. On the 21st of January, 1990, to be exact. What a strange place to be born, I often thought to myself. My mother, who was an Egyptian resident in France, volunteered at the Red Cross and worked as a full-time doctor in war zones. I never asked her why she chose to lead such a life, or what she was doing alone in France, away from her family in Cairo. Surprisingly, I didn’t ask her lots of questions when I had the chance to. Given the fact that my life has always been a fairy tale, Mother had to meet a prince charming. He wasn’t a fellow doctor as one may hastily suppose, but an artist, or so he claimed. A freelance painter, dawdling mindlessly in Paris. Even though Mama was quite a practical woman, she had a keen eye for art, for expressionism in particular, which was the niche of the inglorious artist Galal Osmanov. So, they met, fell in love and married the next summer in Nice. But old habits die hard, as they say; for Daddy had an uneasy eye for women, though he grew up in a radical Muslim society in his hometown Sarajevo. Over time, Mama struggled with Daddy’s dreadful habits which went from bad to worse. He had endless supplies of money, given the fact that he comes from a wealthy family and, as expected, he soon gave in to his desires. Perhaps for that reason Mother accepted his older brother’s invitation for them to visit Sarajevo and settle in. Once more, it was a bizarre quirk of fate that led to my birth in such a romanticized spot of earth. The war broke out two years after I was born. There was no way in or out and lucky were those who were left alive. Mother blamed Father for their predicament. At that time, Cairo was a safe haven compared to Sarajevo where there was a Serbian sniper shooting civilians dead in each and every street. But my father couldn’t care less, not because he was a fearless man who fought for a cause, or because his strong faith gave him confidence but because he was never sober. He was constantly drinking and hiding underneath his older brother’s spacious cloak. When I speak about Uncle Mujo[1] I feel at a loss for words. Uncle Mujo was a very strong man, a man of wealth, influence and reputation in Sarajevo. A sort of beloved Sheikh. He had many loyal followers who wouldn’t mind serving him like slaves. He didn’t drink, smoke or desire women and nearly never spoke without referencing a phrase or two from the Quran. He trusted no one and carried his 44-magnum revolver everywhere. Although he was not an actual sheikh, he found great pleasure in the company of sheikhs who happened to feed his feverish assumptions about crusades against Islam. When the war broke out, it was no surprise for him, for he had somehow visualized it before it had begun. And yet, Uncle Mujo had his weak points, like his unconditional love for his baby brother Galal who cynically opposed all the beliefs Sheikh Mujo adopted. No matter what baby Galal did, he was forgiven. “I’ll pray to God to guide him to the righteous path,” Uncle often told Mama, with a gentle pat on her shoulder. And pray he often did.
The Siege
Sarajevo, 1992
Mother became a prisoner. Not solely because of the siege on Sarajevo, but because she had become tied to notorious Galal since my cheerful birth. The siege was another issue. A slow death sentence issued by our fellow Serbian neighbors. When the siege started, I was hardly two years old, walking clumsily around in Uncle Mujo’s spacious home. Listening to various words of Bosnian, Arabic, Serbian and naively mixing them together into utterly meaningless sentences. At night, I used to hear lots of stories about people murdered savagely and other atrocities. Since my mother and uncle were the only two adults sober in the house, they used to exchange these stories while Prince Galal lay drunk on the couch.
“They are killing us because we’re Muslim, sister Nihad!”
“But Sheikh Mujo, it’s a political conflict! The referendum…”
“Ah, bullshit! Don’t believe this European nonsense! They had this planned for a long time.”
Uncle had his beliefs that weren’t altering. He soon began to answer God’s call and recruited men to defend Islam. He had access to as many arms as he wanted and lacked neither the purpose nor the justifications to launch his own war. The house soon became an arsenal, with various men coming in and going out with loaded guns. Uncle Mujo generously bought guns and ammunition from the Bosnian black-market criminals who joined the army at the outset of the war. The guns were illegally smuggled into the city through Serb lines, enabling raids on Serb-held positions.
She was kind enough to carry on reading me bedtime stories at night, though they were often interrupted by loud shrills of gunshots and heavy shells.
Mother managed to remain calm throughout the process, deliberately looking away and forcing me to do the same. She was kind enough to carry on reading me bedtime stories at night, though they were often interrupted by loud shrills of gunshots and heavy shells. Questions of why and how were insignificant, as Uncle Mujo used to say; we had to survive the Serbian aggression and the long-planned extinction scheme, for if we died at the hands of the Serbs, we died dishonourably.
Inferno
Sarajevo, 1993
A happy birthday to me. I became three years old. Frail and lonely in a dying dream-city. When time freezes, people often experience existential states of mind. I believe that was the case with Mother, who was now in her early thirties, openly unhappily married with a three-year-old child in a doomed city. Eventually, she became only married on paper. Her relationship deteriorated with Prince Galal who joined the holy army and put on a uniform. True he was never seen fighting or even leaving Uncle’s house except to take a stroll in the yard or smoke outside, yet he clutched his machine gun like a silly tick on a dog’s fur. As time passed, Mother became more melancholic. She abandoned that frail hope of departure she had been holding onto and began to face reality and embrace it in a humanitarian way. She decided to kill time by serving at the local Bosnian hospital. A hospital that lacked even the most primitive tools to save a life. Still, she kept going nearly every day, bearing a new horrifying story for Uncle Mujo upon returning home. She told him tales of injured children, some of which died in her arms. Such dreadful sights began to affect her faith, and she began to accuse God openly of having abandoned the city. “They are merciless and so is he!” she burst out one night in a tear tantrum after losing a child who had been severely injured in Serbian-fired mortar shell.
“Hold fast to your faith dear! Tested are the beloved ones!”
“No, Sheikh Mujo!” she shouted back.
“These children are now in heaven, sister.”
“I’m not going to wait till I lose Nadia!”
“Our child is safe, sister,” Uncle Mujo repeated again and again. “I give you my word!”
Though Father was around the whole time, Uncle Mujo often referred to me as his child. He knew Mother was unhappy, stuck in a strange culture and ethnic conflict she did not relate to, as well as emotionally numb and neglected. He could only spoil me with gifts—stuffed dolls and toys—and preach about the necessity of mother having another baby boy with Prince Galal for the sake of religion and family. A plea that left Mother speechless, given the number of children that died every day. She had to accept reality once more, the fact of being trapped in a madhouse with an obsessed warlord and a drunk spoiled prince. There was no way out, no escape from the ongoing inferno.
Sheikh Suljo
Sarajevo, 1994
The snow fell quietly. It had been snowing since early February. This year, Mama did not bake me a cake for my birthday. She did not sing me a birthday song or draw me a fairy butterfly. I could count her smiles; they were scattered few, fewer than her words. The previous nights, I slumbered alone. My toys seem to alter at night; their eyes would glitter with a wicked look, as though they knew Mama was not coming. I pushed them out of bed and concealed myself under the blanket. I shut my eyes as they laughed cruelly. At these times, I often cried. I couldn’t tell Uncle Mujo about their cruelty towards me though I was certain he would scare them away.
I could count her smiles; they were scattered few, fewer than her words.
“Why are you crying, Nadia?” he often asked me and I often fell silent, for in his presence the toys were just toys. Perhaps he scared them with his black cloth and thick beard. Perhaps they knew he was their master. I was never scared of him, not even when he shouted and yelled at his men. In the nights Mother was away, he would come and hush me to sleep, always falling to sleep, before I did. I would lay fidgeting in his arms, exploring his thick beard with my scrawny finger and recalling Mama’s tales of giants and titans. No one dared disturb his sleep, except one young man. When he first stepped into the room, I was swinging between vigilance and sleep. I opened my eyes and stared at him; he had wide hazel eyes, dark black hair and fair white skin. I watched as he approached the bed slowly, sneaking in his leather shoes.
“Brother Mujo!” he whispered as he gently patted Uncle’s shoulder. Strangely, he didn’t seem to heed me though I lay peacefully in Uncle’s arms.
“Brother Mujo!” he whispered again. Uncle opened his eyes and stared at him. I thought he would scream in his face but he did not.
“Sheikh Suljo![2] You’re here!” Uncle exclaimed eagerly. He rose from bed and hugged the stranger intimately. I stared at him closely. He was hardly 19 years old, slim and resembled none of the other sheikhs I was accustomed to.
“How did you come from Gornji Velešići?[3] The Serbs have blocked all paths!”
“They can block a a hundred paths, and god will open another!”
“Oh, Suljo! My precious boy!” Uncle soon kissed his forehead and hugged him tightly. I noticed that he forgot his revolver by the bedside table as he hurried to fetch the honey jar for the stranger. He dipped the spoon in it and fed him by his hand just like he fed me.
“Come! We have a lot to do, Suljo!”
Uncle soon departed the room, leaving me alone with the sheikh. I watched how he sealed the honey jar and wiped his mouth with a silky handkerchief. My toys were scattered underneath his feet on the floor. He passed by them calmly and sat by the bedside, staring at me with a broad smile. It was not long till he tucked his hand in his black coat and offered me bonbon. I peeked at him and concealed myself back under the blanket, hoping to hear him walk out of the room or magically vanish like the fairy tales Mama stopped telling.
The Massacre
Sarajevo, 1994
Two days after the arrival of Sheikh Suljo, a major drama happened. A millimetre mortar shell landed in the centre of the crowded Markale Market, killing 68 people and injuring 75 others. It seemed as if death was approaching us slowly. Mother determined to leave, but, how could she? She had lost all connections with the world outside Sarajevo, and became utterly secluded. In these days, all I could recall Uncle Mujo talk about was revenge, how he will avenge the victims and make the Serbs pay for their crimes. He clamoured about it day and night restlessly. “God is on our side!” he often said, and Mother often stared at him doubtfully and fell silent. The more people killed, the sharper Uncle’s desire for vengeance grew, especially after the Serbs denied all responsibility and accused the Bosnian government of bombarding its own people to incite international outrage and NATO intervention. Nevertheless, Uncle had no faith whatsoever in peace nor did he trust the UN personnel. For him, they were all members of the crusade.
Nova
Sarajevo, 1995
There is a star dwelling far away in space. Sometimes it glitters and shows a sudden increase in brightness and then slowly return to its original state over a few months. They call this star “Nova.” Mother read about it in one of her science-fiction comics and told me.
“Does this star die, Mama?”
“Yes.” She said it in a dim sad tone and went out to the balcony to smoke a cigarette. That year, Uncle Mujo brought me many illustrated books for my birthday. I noticed how he and Mother avoided eye contact and did not exchange a single word.
“I have another surprise for you, Nadia,” he whispered while tucking his hand in the gift sack. I turned and stared at Mother, but she looked the other way.
“Here you go!” Uncle handed it to me. I wondered what it was as I unwrapped its paper hastily. It was a boxed black item.
“What is it Uncle?”
“It’s a camera, my dear.”
I stared at him perplexedly. He simply smiled and caressed my cheeks.
“I will teach you how to take photos with it.”
Mother did not seem to care. She grabbed my hand and walked on her way out of the room. Abruptly, Uncle intervened, grabbing my other hand a bit harshly.
“Where to, sister Nihad?”
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“Very well. But Nadia should stay here.”
Confused, I froze in my place between the two. Mother glared at Uncle disdainfully and released my hand, walking out of the room. I didn’t see her till the afternoon and spent the rest of the day exploring my uncle’s gift. He showed me how to take photos with that camera and assigned me with the task of photographing his meetings. I did as he pleased and eventually fell asleep in his study. I woke up at a very late hour of night to Mother’s scream. I ascended the stairs only to find mother in tears before Daddy’s bed. He was lying naked with both the maid on his right side and the old cook on his left. Mother covered my eyes with her shivering hands and dragged me out of the room. On our way out, we ran into uncle who came jogging in his pajamas, screaming, “Are the Serbs in the house!” with his armed men. It wasn’t long before Uncle dragged Papa out of bed naked and began to whip him furiously with his belt. It was an utter disgrace for Uncle, who could no longer justify Prince Galal’s decadence. He could only ask Sheikh Suljo to purify him and beg Mother for forgiveness.
“I shouldn’t have sent him to France!” Uncle Mujo kept repeating wistfully, “Forgive him sister! These despicable Europeans messed with his mind!” This and nothing more.
Samir
Sarajevo, 1995
After Mother’s latest tantrum, Uncle Mujo became soft. He sought to please Mother as much as possible, letting her escort me wherever she wished, including the hospital. At the central hospital, there were many children, all injured, lying motionlessly in bed. Mother wouldn’t let me out of her sight, though she spent most of the time with a fellow German doctor called Helen who came to Sarajevo, with her son Samir, among the German Red Cross personnel. The hospital had no protection, except some Bosnian militants, including Uncle’s men. A relative sense of peace seemed to linger on the horizon, until a second massacre occurred. Again, at the Markale Market; five shells were fired, killing 43 and injuring 75. Republika Srpska authorities, as in the 1994 incident, denied all responsibility and accused the Bosnian government of bombarding its own people to incite international outrage and possible intervention. On the night of the attack, Uncle’s men raided the hospital, demanding all foreign personnel give themselves up for an interrogation. He accused the Europeans of passing on information to the Serbs about the whereabouts of Bosnian fighters and their sensitive locations. Mother tried to talk him out of his rage, but he seemed to have been possessed. His men roughly gathered all foreign personnel, including Helen, and pointed guns to their heads.
“You filthy scum! Do you know what the Dutch and Croatians did? They tricked the Bosnians into giving up their weapons! Killed the men and children and raped the women!” Uncle exclaimed like a madman. When his men stumbled upon Helen they brought her before Uncle who pointed his gun to her head, screaming, “Are you Dutch?”
“No, I’m not! Please! We’re Lebanese!”
“LIAR! Search her!”
They soon came across her German passport.
“Ah! You’re German!”
Out of the crowd, Samir came running. He pushed Uncle’s men away and knelt by Helen’s side.
“Leave Mama alone!”
Uncle marvelled at Samir, Helen’s 11-year-old boy. He stared at him admirably.
“Sheikh Mujo, please stop! She’s my friend! They’re good people!” Mama desperately exclaimed.
“Who is this?” Uncle shouted, referring to Samir.
“My son, Samir.”
“Show me his papers!”
The moment Uncle saw Samir’s passport, his rage seemed to slowly ease.
“Ah, Samir Nasri! So, you really are Lebanese after all.”
“Yes, Sheikh!”
“What are you doing in Sarajevo with a child?”
“My husband left to Lebanon. I’m all alone with Samir!”
Uncle glared at her doubtfully and lowered his gun. He soon ordered his men to let go of the other doctors and leave.
“You two are coming with us! You’re our guests for tonight.”
“But Sheikh Mujo…?”
“Hush! Come along.”
Uncle’s men led the four of us to the car. They squeezed us in the back seat while Uncle Mujo drove away quickly. I stared at Samir who sat quietly by my side, his hands as cold as ice, his eyes numbly dead, and asked him and Helen to smile before I took their picture.
Once we were taken back to Uncle’s house, Helen and Samir had a tougher interrogation. Uncle learned about Samir’s father, a Lebanese lawyer and politician who left them both and indulged in sectarian political affairs in Lebanon.
“Is your husband Muslim?”
“Yes.”
“What about your child?”
“I prefer to let Samir decide.”
“So, you raise him as an atheist?”
“No! But he has his own will to choose.”
Uncle served Helen and Samir bread and honey as they spoke. Nevertheless, his tone indicated deep dissatisfaction.
“You hear this, Sheikh Suljo? She says she’d rather let him choose! That is the ultimate European bullshit.” Uncle Mujo burst out laughing, while Sheikh Suljo mumbled, “1Astaghfir allah aleazim”[4] disdainfully.
“Come here, boy!” Uncle asked Samir to approach him. As soon as Samir stood before him, he caressed his face and lent him his gun.
“I will need a brave boy like you to guard Nadia! You can have this.”
Samir stared at the gun numbly then grabbed it without flinching.
“Sheikh Mujo, I don’t want my son near any guns.”
“Hush! When men talk, women SHUT UP!”
Helen fell silent. She watched Samir hold the gun and could not utter a word.
“From now on, you’re our guests in Sarajevo! And Samir is our fighter.”
The Drowned Whale
Sarajevo, 1996
Samir and Helen spent the following seven months in Uncle Mujo’s house. The war was beginning to reach an end, but the siege of Sarajevo was standing still. During these months, Uncle Mujo often included Samir in his meetings, treating him as an active militia member. He taught him to shoot with guns and filled his head with radical beliefs. Samir used to listen and say nothing. Always silent and quiet. Yet he fulfilled uncle’s wishes and became my own guardian. A protector I didn’t ask for. Helen was still waiting for the siege to end to go back to Germany, but uncle had other plans for Samir. He declared he needed a son and that Helen could stay with us for as long as she wished. At night, Samir used to read me my stories and protect me from evil monsters. My toys wouldn’t dare be mean to me in his presence and they feared him as much as they feared uncle. On the night of the 11th of February, Uncle Mujo bought us all dessert. He declared that the war was to be over within a few counted days, but asked us all not to forget the atrocities of the Serbs. That night, while everyone was asleep, I abruptly woke up. I searched for Samir, but did not find him in his room. There was a slight noise coming from the basement. I headed there alone, sneaking on my tiptoes. There, I found uncle, Sheikh Suljo, and Samir along with three other men in military uniforms. I recognized their uniform immediately as it belonged to the Serbian army. I listened as Uncle cursed them and called them murderers. Though the war was nearly over, he had unfinished business to settle.
“Watch now Samir as I avenge your brothers!” Uncle said and pointed a gun to one of the soldier’s heads. “This is for what you did in Srebrenica!!” he said and blew off the soldier’s head. I watched as Sheikh Suljo recited Quran nearby while uncle moved to the second soldier. “This is for the women and children at Markale!” The sound of the second bullet left me shivering. I gave out a muffled cry and shut my eyes. Uncle soon noticed my presence; he walked straight to me and held my hand. “Ah! Nadia, Nadia!” he sighed deeply, “Perhaps you should see this!” He held my hand and led me inside the basement. I stared at Samir as he stood silent.
“Now, for Lieutenant Milićević, I give you this honor, Samir!” Uncle said it and gave the gun to Samir. “Do it!”
The lieutenant started to mutter feverishly in Serbian. I understood some of his words…
“You’re going to let a little boy kill me you bastard!”
“Yes.”
Samir’s hand trembled with the gun. He stared at Uncle and his scattered men reluctantly.
“Shoot him, Samir!” Uncle exclaimed, but Samir couldn’t.
“Don’t you love Nadia, Samir? Do it for Nadia!”
Samir stared at me and fell silent, the words choking in his throat.
“Do it, Samir! Do it!” Uncle exclaimed in his ears as he squeezed the boy’s shoulder.
Samir closed his eyes and pressed the trigger. Soon, it was over. The Serbian lieutenant fell to the ground dead. Uncle patted Samir’s shoulder proudly. It wasn’t long before Samir looked at me with an expression of regret and fainted.
The Last Favour
Paris, 2017
Do you see now, my dear Pierre? I’m back to where everything began. To where Mama met Papa, her prince charming. But sadly, I cannot continue my tale for the whale has drowned. It drowned when both Samir and I were young. When my camera captured photos of dead bodies shot by ruthless snipers in alleys. And when I donated my illustrated fairy books to children who were scattered and torn to pieces under heavy Serb shelling. My fairy whale drowned with lots of secrets and untold tales. But I still have some dark secrets myself. Did I tell you that the night Samir killed that lieutenant, he did not cease killing? Or that Sheikh Suljo looked in my eyes eight years later and told me, “I can’t pray because I want you!” And tonight, I ought to meet my guardian again to ask him for a final favour. It’s Paris, after all, the city of lights; so how can some frail darkness scare us? What is that? You say I’ve deceived you? Ah, sweet Pierre, you were waiting for the girl’s wild sexual tales. I apologize. Well, the night is still young my dear. And there’s still plenty of time left till I meet Samir.
ENDNOTES
[1] Mujo: Bosnian diminutive of the name Mustafa.
[2] Suljo: Bosnian diminutive of Süleyman.
[3] Gornji Velešići: one of the slope local communities of Novo Sarajevo municipality.
[4] Astaghfir Allah Aleazim: a short prayer of redemption in Islam. An expression of shame.
