Jasmine : A love greeting to the youthful : Nasrene
By : Nazik Al MALAIKA
This story was first published in 1958, in the Arabic (Lebanese) literary
Magazine AlADAAB. It was reprinted in AL MALAIKA's selection of
short stories: The sun Beyond the Mountain Top.
When I left Iraq to study in the states five years ago, we had in our
house a new born baby sister. Ayad, who was twelve years old at the time,
suggested that we call her Jasmine which was the name of a flower tree
in our garden, and who other than Aiad would plant any thing in our house?
The garden was his temple. My father would have preferred to name the girl
Suaad, so that our names would be in order: Wdad, Ayad, And Suad, this
way satisfying the crave for rhyme which was popular among some Iraqi families.
But my mother liked Iaad's idea, and I agreed with her decision. Seeing
the innocent boy's excitement and his happiness was enough to make us respect
his wish.
There was in my little sister something which appeals
to the heart and I would have preferred to wait for a month to get to know
her before leaving for a long time. But the date for my journeying was
preset and thus I found myself with the coming of the dawn weaving my hands
to my father and Aiad as they came to tell me good-bye at the airport.
Jasmine was then only two weeks old.
The influence of living away from home is immense.
At first, the foreigner clings to all she brought along with her from the
old lands which opened its arms and gave her away to the distance. she
clings to little things such as the number of the trees in the garden where
she used to play, the taste of tea made in her house and which nothing
else resembles, and the small face of Jasmine which filled the heart for
a few days before distance muted the sound of her crying. She clings to
all of these things swearing never to let go, never allowing forgetfulness
to steal them from her. But the new life holds on to her offering new issues,
situations and faces and soon she forgets even that she is forgetting.
And in the beginning of the second year she senses suddenly how far she
became from all what she loved, and the big truth surprises her: She has
changed.
Four years. How could I not forget Jasmine? Ayad
would mention her occasionally among other important news items: The bark
of the oak tree is twisted, the harvest was weak this year, and Jasmine
has grown and is now attached to our cat, etc...
I used to send her toys occasionally and had her
picture on my desk. But these sparks of attachments did not connect us.
All I had was the image of a sister, and I did not feel the yearning which
communication and closeness creates. That did not bother me. I knew I was
coming back to Iraq. One week of closeness will make us like each other
as two sisters should. What is the reason for worrying and hurrying matters?
Then I came back in the fall.
In the happiness of the meeting, I forgot all about
Jasmine. After the first minutes, Ayad came to me carrying a beautiful
little girl with long black hair, wearing a blue Italian Pantaloon. Ayad
put her in my arms saying: "I see you have forgotten Jasmine. Don't you
ever inquire about her?"
Jasmine! From that first moment my little sister became the most
important of my occupations.
It seemed to me that my absence in the States locked
within me the love and yearning which exploded when I came back. As for
Jasmine, she refused from the start my friendship: As soon as I held her
and tried to kiss her, she pushed me away with both of her hands saying:
"Go away. I do not want you." My mother had to take her away from me. She
tried to assure her by telling her that I am her older sister Widad of
whom she has heard often. And when my mother felt my disappointment she
told me: "Do not worry. She doesn't know you yet. Give her time to like
you." But the passage of days did not fulfill this prophecy since Jasmine's
views of me did not change.
I acted as normal people would in such situations:
I liked my cute little sister, so I did all I can to get to know her and
establish communication between us. I flooded her with toys, candy,
and clothes, and whatever she likes, and paid close attention to all her
affairs. But my efforts only made her tense, so she kept a distance from
me, and was cautious, as though I am a stranger. Her little heart remained
closed to all my keys without sharing a single emotion from those sororial
feelings which filled my heart. Our family members were touched when they
saw all my efforts fail and in the end of each I would hear the same response:
"Go away .. I don't want you."
I did theorize the situation, saying that sororial
love is not an abstract concept for a four year old kid as it is for us,
older folks, but must grew as a seed. Jasmine grew up in this house
for four years and got accustomed to all its inhabitants, including the
cat. She saw their faces every day and recieved their love and kindness.
That was her world, the little happy kingdom she ruled. Then all of a sudden
I came and she was told to include me as a citizen. Why? Because I am her
sister. Is this an acceptable logic for her?
Jasmine never had a place reserved for me in her
kingdom. I arrived late to find instead of the heart where I expected
pure love a castle the entrance to which is forbidden.
What does distance do to us? In America I thought it erases slowly
what we carried with us from our old worlds. I could not then discover
the more important of its effects. Because of my obstinate sister Jasmine,
I found out that absence does not erase only, but adds also. If the four
years I spent away were all her years of jer life, that would explain her
treatment of me as a stranger, but, how much did those years distance me
from my mother for instance, or from Aiad?
They think that we gain from our lives abroad, without
imagining the price which we will have to pay. The life away from home
is not all joy, and its cost is usually heavy. Some of us pay it while
distant, and some later. We return home altered, inside us new layers are
piled, deep in each of which are different faces, echoes of words uttered
in strange gatherings, visions of distant sites, paths curving in farms
different from ours, and chambers in buildings which exist elsewhere.
We have lived a past with different roads and grown
accustomed to different faces, and now we need to erase that past from
our lives absolutely. No one here shares it with us. Every other past can
exist in our present except that American past which we are obliged to
efface immediately. Our parents and friends look at it worryingly. Just
as Jasmine is cautious with me. They imagine that we should not change,
and treat us as though we are still the same. That will be what first surprises
us as we enter the house looking for our old connections. We try to do
what they want from us, and erase the past for their sakes, but we eventually
find out that the past is not a paper we can tear and rid ourselves of
easily. And if we do, it will be the same as living in our house without
Jasmine. She is the theoretical correlative to this change in my life.
Isn't she four years old?
And then a new horrible feeling started growing
inside me. Is it just me who have changed? Did they not change as well.
Time has separated us. Jasmine's refusal of me is the name of this gap
since she embodies all what I do not know in my parent's lives. And what
do I know? They were telling me in their letters about important events,
and these are usually the most superficial. What do I know about the essentials?
Four years of silence, and then I come back and find Jasmine four years
old. If my parents too have changed, and their change has a voice, it would
shout at me: "Go.. We do not want you" in the same manner of Jasmine. Probably,
it is already shouting.. That was how I felt.
Regardless of the situation, I grew very attached to
Jasmine, so that her coldness towards me was a dismaying phenomena, making
me feel like a stranger at home. I continued trying to decrease the
distance between us, but I began - when all my efforts at gaining
her friendship failed, to feel frustrated. So I told her angrily: "Jasmine.
I do not love you. Do you hear?" And I would feel a wave of emotions gather
in her face in such instances, but soon she would gather herself and respond
challengingly: "Why don't you get back to America? I told you that you
are not my sister and that I do not love you."
These conflicts between us increased becoming eventually serious. My
mother was surprised that I did not learn in my travels to conceal my emotions
so that I can manage situations instead of surrendering to them. She was
also dismayed by my lack of patience, and told me numerous times and the
question of the child's love for me should not be dealt with in a spirit
of anger but requires self control until she grows accustomed to me and
stops seeing me as a stranger in the house. But I was getting impatient,
imagining that my mother too, has changed.
I continued my efforts without despairing of Jasmine.
She is my sister and I love her and she will reciprocate my feelings one
day. I would buy her a gift in the afternoon and then we would fight at
dinner. It bothered me terribly that she would accept my gifts and refuse
me. On numerous occasions, my father would protest that I am causing trouble
at the dinner table by angering the child. I would sometimes upset her
by taking her plate from its place in front of her, and she would bow her
head refusing to talk or even comment on the matter. All this frustrated
our mother whose patience deteriorated with this continuos conflict: Jasmine
refused to love me, and I would not stop my affection for her.
Actually, the conflict between me and her was like a war,
and it soon became obvious to everybody that Jasmine found pleasure in
repeating the refrain: "Go. I don't want you." As for me, I ceased seeing
her as a little baby girl, but imagined her an adult knowing perfectly
what she is doing. She appeared to me ambiguous, obstinate, invincible,
as though her four years are a strong castle which separates us leaving
me behind the walls. Her world continued growing within me until it became
larger than life. It disturbed me that others did not look at the matter
seriously, but teased me about it occasionally, even though I was very
affected by it.
I never had a truce with her. Often I would surprise
her with horrible suggestions as saying: "Jasmine, would you like me to
give you to that tall construction employee and ask him to build you into
the wall? You will look real pretty there?" Or I would suggest hanging
her in the fan at the ceiling and letting her turn. She probably understood
that I was teasing her, so she would answer coldly as though she does not
appreciate my sense of humor, saying: "Mamma would not agree." And my mother
would blame me for telling such unpleasant jokes to a four year old. But
I have ceased being wise. Jasmine's coldness angered me, and I forgot the
basic laws of propriety. The conflicts between us continued until my dad
complained saying he does not know who is the child, me or Jasmine.
Months passed without any change in the situation. Jasmine's kingdom stayed
closed in my face until the summer arrived, when a strange unforgettable
event took place.
Jasmine always refused to enter my room, and all
my efforts to induce her to visit failed. So it happened in the early afternoon
hours of a very hot day that I found her sleeping in my mother's room.
There was an electricity shortage which effected one half of the house,
and the fan stopped, so the baby was sweating terribly. I could not
bear it so I decided to carry her to my room where the electricity was
still available. I remembered right away that Jasmine does not like
my room. It was not right for me to use her slumber to take her to it and
enjoy seeing her there, even if asleep. But the availability of a good
excuse and the justification of the child's own good stopped the voice
of my conscience. All I want really is her happiness. Besides, couldn't
she leave the room when she wakes up? I will not be her jailer.
That was how the event which I cannot explain until
today took place. It was one of those casual passing events which look
superficial but is actually related to the heart of matters in our lives
and our behaviors, as though it would leave on us its profound impact,
changing our lives.
I remember that my mother and father were out of
the house that afternoon. Had they been there they would not have permitted
me to take Jasmine to my room, even if it was to her advantage, so long
as we had the war between us. So I laid my sister on my bed and stayed
watching over her happily. Her face looked like the face of a happy sleeping
child. I started reading, knowing that everything is all right. After
an hour passed, I wondered whether she hasn't slept for too long?
I decided to allow her another half an hour, and still she did not wake
up, but continued her slumbering.
I started to feel tense. What heavy slumber! I started
calling her name and touched her hair trying to wake her up, but without
success. When she did not move, I was surprised so I carried her from the
bed and sat her on my knee expecting her to say with a sleepy voice: "Leave
me, I do not want you." But my expectation did not materialize and
the baby just rested her head on my shoulder quietly and stayed slumbering.
I was worried over her suddenly, doubting the nature of this profound slumber.
I returned her to the bed and went searching for Ayad to ask for his opinion.
He was in the garden watering the trees. When I explained the matter to
him, he smiled saying: "Jasmine again! Why don't you let her sleep a bit?
She needs some rest." His remark angered me, even though it was true.
The child played a lot; she probably needs more rest.
I returned to my chamber again and tried to read.
Ten more minutes passed and I noticed something which worried me. There
was a strange movement in her closed eyes, as though her pupils were moving
in circles underneath the closed eye lids. I touched her hands, and they
were cold as ice. I did not hesitate. The baby is ill and I need to worry.
I tried waking her up to no avail.
Finally I carried her and run to the garden where
Ayad was. When he saw her lying motionless in my arms he looked worried
and sat her on the nearest chair.
But his efforts at reviving her were futile: He
whispered her name, touched her hair, shook her, sat her, while she
continued her deep, death like, slumber. I felt terrible pain and was distressed.
Shouldn't I call the family Doctor? Ayad was still rational so he put her
on my knee and run to the nearest Doctor. He turned at the door, and, noting
my paleness, said gently: "Don't worry. She has fainted."
Don't worry! Does he imagine that I am worried!
I was going insane with distress. This has happened to the child because
I took her to my room. If something should transpitre, I will be
responsible. Me who loves her so much.
The following ten minutes were among the most severe
in my life. Anxiety stirred my imagination. Images were appearing to my
eyes in order, and to my memory arrived a childhood event which I have
forgotten for many years. My parents bought me, when I was very young,
a doll - and it moved when it was wounded up. As I sat watching her movements,
she just stopped. I felt an ambiguous dread, as though I have killed somebody.
I cried until my mother came and found me terrified. What brought this
event to my memory? I looked to the pale Jasmine and felt the same feelings
again, seeing in front of me the life which stopped in my hands. Did my
childhood nightmare come to pass? It is not a doll this time but the most
loved of people. My tears started falling.
I felt that it was painful for her to stay seated
on my knee. She would refuse for me to hold her when she was filled with
the warmth of life. Let me enjoy her now that her lips are blue and she
is almost dead. I was egotistic in desiring her love even to the extent
of carrying her sleeping to my room. Could she be so sensitive that she
would get sick if someone forces her in this manner? Could she be dying
through a secret will which I can not understand? Did I imagine that a
sleeper would not know what goes on around him? Could she have felt that
she is in my room and protested by fainting or dying?
I stayed worried as the baby showed no sign of life.
Then I heard my mother and hurried to her and in my heart a great hope.
She is my mother. Her mother. She will save her. If my love could not wake
her up, the love of a mother is stronger. As soon as she saw us her countenance
changed, knowing that something has happened. I still remember the strange
tone of her inquisitive voice: "What is the matter with her?" my voice
came weak and begging "She is sleeping."
Was it because of the presence of my mother that
the child came back to life? She breathed deeply, and then was moaning
and sighing for a few minutes. Then she opened her eyes and looked at us
as though without recognition. Finally, she stared into the emptiness beyond
my mother's shoulder and pushing her away, screamed. She started to the
ceiling and cried. At that instant my mother lost her composure and shouted:
"My baby is dying. Call the Doctor." I run to the phone and besides it
I stood not knowing what to do: She is dying then. My whole body was shivering
and my mind vacant.
At this minute Aiad entered with a doctor from the
neighborhood. Jasmine woke up after a half an hour. The Doctor told us
that she had an epileptic seizure.
As for me, I felt weary and depressed. So I withdrew
to my room and locked its door. I could not analyze my feelings but I suffered
from something which I cannot explain and probably have never felt before.
I put my head on my desk and cried for a few minutes without knowing exactly
why. I am not sure how I slept in my uncomfortable position either, but
I dreamt.
The place was big and wide as an American train station
which is found regularly in the big cities. And I had with me many heavy
bags. A person whom I could not recognize stopped and talked to me for
a few seconds. After he left I looked around but could not find my luggage.
Its place was vacant. The sense of vacancy scared me because it stood in
sharp contrast to the space which my luggage filled. I searched in the
station for my bags, climbing stairs and descending others, as they ran
in a nightmarish labyrinth. I would see my luggage in the distance each
time, so I would feel sure that I will find them once I would turn around
the stair. But the final stair would end suddenly with a wall springing
from the emptiness, or would lead me downward, making my luggage more distant
than before. Then I would end in a waiting hall and beside me stands a
luggage carrier who politely points where my bags are but when I cross
over they would disappear. Then the stairs started to thin out, and the
paths cress cross so that I was unable to get any where. The place was
filled with people and they would smilingly point the path to me and help
me to no avail until I lost my equilibrium and started sweating profusely
and was unable to speak. Then I heard a loud explosion resembling the crashing
of two trains. I woke up.
It was a nightmare caused, undoubtedly, by the awkward
position of my nick during my slumber.
Slumber and crying returned to me some peace and
concentration. In the next few minutes I faced myself, discovering - in
one of those epiphinic moments which might change the life of someone -
the truth of the matter. Simply, I loved my sister and she hated me. Matters
reached their conclusion this evening, and I must withdraw before it is
too late. No more teasing her after today, neither sweets nor candy. No
efforts to invite her to my room. Didn't I discover that she prefers epilepsy
to my companionship?
What now? Does it truly please me to force her to
love me? What is the value of a sorority which does not spring as a flower
when the sun shines? I have seen Jasmine for the first time and she filled
my soul, so why did I not fill hers? My emotions were embracing the coldness
of snow without knowing. Jasmine was a beautiful marble statue which no
friendship can reach. It is in vain that I try to squeeze a one drop of
kindness out of this stone.
Am I emotional? probably. This was the view of my
mother. Or is it that I do not know how to treat this strange child? I
have depleted all means, only to discover that I can not resolve this complexity.
The girl is a wall I cannot pass, like the walls in my nightmare.
When I discovered the impossibility of understanding
her, I started to feel some inner peace. It is always comforting to know
that the key to impossible goals is beyond our will and effort, and the
moment when we reach this insight we are liberated from the influence of
these goals and their impact on us. So I started to assert my independence
from Jasmine, hoping to imagine that she does not reside in the house,
as though she never existed.
A new phase in my family life started. I did not reach out
to Jasmine or talk to her without a reason. It was difficult in the first
few days since I was accustomed to keep busy with her to the extent that
it was difficult to push her from my mind suddenly. But I continued and
persevered refusing to be easy on my self. Soon the pain waves receded
until it faded away. As for Jasmine, nothing seemed to have changed. To
the contrary, she appeared happier and in better health, not in need of
anything. Two weeks passed.
It so happened during this period that a young female
relative swallowed, while laughing, a needle which she was toying with
in her mouth. The needle stayed deep in her throat, making it difficult
for her to breath. She had to go to England to have an operation. The girl's
parents did not know English, and they insisted that I accompany the girl.
I gathered my small suitcase in a hurry, and found myself in a couple of
days in London with the girl and her mother.
When saying good bye to family members, upon reaching
Jasmine I hesitated: Should I kiss her as I kissed the others? I remembered
her epilepsy so I controlled myself, content with just saying a nice word
and leaving her, almost in tears. She is my sister after all and I should
not treat her in this manner at a good bye moment. Who knows? We may never
meet again? Jasmine did not return my good-bye but hid her little face
in the shoulder of my mother and did not raise it until she faded from
my sight.
I stayed in England for a couple of months only.
The operation succeeded, and we watched the patient's situation ameliorate
day after day, which gave us time to think of other, less important, matters.
Ayad would write me the news twice a week, but what I heard about Jasmine
was important. She was less energetic, lost some of her appetite.. and
was often crying and making a fuss over little things. All my mother's
efforts to make her regain her previous happiness failed.
Such news would pain and worry me. I would wish
that I was home to help bring her happiness back to her. I discovered also
that her voice telling me: "Go, I do not want you" is better than the silence
of the London Hospital. I never imagined that her suffering was caused
by my absence. Her coldness made her coming to me one day seem impossible.
Reaching the moon was easier than me and her becoming sisters.
The same morning I received a lengthy letter from
my mom which detailed events which shook me and sounded unbelievable. Jasmine
was inquiring about me, and using my absence as an excuse for crying and
demanding whatever is forbidden her. She exploded one morning saying angrily
that she does not love anyone in the house as much as me. She would ask
everyday when am I coming back? She even requested that they write telling
me that she loves me and wants me back home.
How this letter affected me? I wished that the two
remaining weeks of my stay in London would pass so that I would return
and finally live in peace with my sister. Our war lasted for about nine
months.
At the airport, at the day of my return, Jasmine's face was the first I
saw behind the counter among those welcoming me home. I reached out to
her, still fearing holding and carrying her. When I called her name, she
hid her face at my mother's shoulders - as she did at the day of my departure
- and Ayad told her excitedly: "Jasmine. Widad is back as you wished. Say
hello to her." That appeal was unheeded, for she did not raise her head,
and I feared. They must have fooled me. Aiad lost all patience, so he carried
her from my mother and gave her to me. She did not resist, but she hid
her face in my shoulder refusing to raise it or say anything. But I saw
the flickering of a smile on her face. I noticed that for the first time
she did not scream: "Go. I do not want you." I started to relax. Haven't
I yet learned that the smallest of smallest of her acts carry the
strongest of meanings?
I carried her and run home, heedless of my luggage.
I did not feel ashamed of my appearance as I ran carrying her, while many
of my acquaintances stared.
1959
