Remember the River Euphrates? by Sara Al Husaini is the 1st place winner of the Nostalgia short story competition, organized by Cálice Magazine and SUM. Read the 2nd and 3rd place stories here.
There was a time when the light shone bright; when you smiled in a manner that brought the Sumerian inside you out, the great curls like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon that took wing with the wind. We are not near the river Tigris, the great Euphrates—we lost it, our country. I lost it, spilled it like milk.
No one likes opinionated women, or so they tell me. We all have our reasons, right? We had to go and leave it all behind.
We walk near the Malmö canal—not a river, nor our country, but home, kind of. Your hair flows freely, the curls gone with the wind like little black clouds, so visible against the blue sky, and dark eyes that capture it all. “This is nice,” you say.
Not Euphrates, but the Malmö canal.
Now I'm not with you, but alone. I look at the dark canal water, the neverending stream of people strolling with their dogs, and the great trees along the path. Someone has attached a white heart to one of these trees; it says "kärlek till alla" in red.
Sister, do you remember when we walked this same path carved by the very same canal? You asked me that day, “Remember the glittering river Euphrates? Remember the dark red tea we had?”
“Of course! I still taste the cardamom in the tea,” I answered. I feel the clenching heat in my neck, the palm trees carved in my corneas, your laughter, the fine sand creeping through my open-toe sandals. But, little sister, now I am here. This is Sweden—not my home, but my future.
Sometimes this means walking alone, crying alone, and making only one cup of tea.
Sometimes I play pretend, close my eyes, open them up again, and see the canal turning into the river Euphrates. Swedish begins to sound like Arabic, our southern dialect, but the Malmö sun is shy; it hides behind the clouds, her rays awfully kind. My toes are wrapped in warm socks, inside my black sneakers. I realize that imagination is defeated by memory; my senses are in Iraq, but I am here—not home, but kind of.
The photographs hurt—you with our smiling parents far away, the rivers of our ancestors. But I manage, away from these thoughts and the canal. I order a latte in Djäknegatan, smile like Mom and Dad, say "tack" to the barista, and sit down.
The sounds fill the café—none of them mine, none of them yours. My phone lights up; you have sent me a message:
Hi! How’s it going, all good?
All is good.
I send you a picture of the latte. I hope you'll believe I'm doing fine, that I didn't cry last night. I miss you, but not enough to tell you, not enough to worry you.
Nice, you say, and heart my picture.
You went back, your curls hidden from the sun, the sky, and the eyes. I understand, but I can't stop missing you.
I wish I was there, I type...and erase.
You got a heart from me, little sister.
There's no need for more, not now—no theaters, no masks, just distance and pasts.
This is Sweden; I'm home now—sort of.
Written by Sara Al Husaini.
Cover image by Amr Abbas.