… right now we are millions of puzzled souls populating a planet. We name "disease", “soledad”, "what", in unison, in different languages. Some speak of certainty and others claim that all certainty is a lie. That's why we have to keep traveling, so, sideways, so, narrating or listening…
That's why these intimate postcards, from different parts of the world, that tell us about the universal of this troubled time.
Loneliness
Soledad. Romanian.
The good thing about immigrant motherhood is not having to listen to gossip from your aunts.
"He has no mămăligă on the table, how is she going to raise the girl ".
At least one breathes at her own pace, ¿no? This floor of 50 square meters has no heating, but the windows are thick. The good thing about the distance is that you rebuild; the identity is very clean, well empty of what is not. The downside is walking on unknown trails without a guide. And it is so tiring to walk careful not to stumble, not to go wrong the way. With how easy it would have been to simply follow the little steps marked by the mother and the grandmother, well recognizable in the mud.
The good thing about immigrant motherhood is being able to represent the best of your land, talk about the good times, try to reproduce flavors and knowledge. The bad thing is not being able to go to Grandma's house and ask: So the salt is added before or after?
Does the simmer? When does one learn to breathe?
The days of confinement are exile in exile. It's hard to be without anyone looking. Suddenly you must be a mother, park, tree, swing, flower, market. Suddenly the windows are a walk. But what an ugly ride when all you see is a gray building, with the neighbor's panties as a flag. Then yes, all reference is lost, everything gets a little fuzzy, we could be anywhere in the world.
But when I'm about to lose myself a voice anchors me to the ground with its why.
Mom why. Why is water wet. Why do you have fingers. Why is there a hair on the table. Why the dust. Why the moon and why the sun.
And then the magic: the water wets to soften us so that we can grow. I have fingers to braid your hair and let your dreams climb. There is a hair on the table because a hungry dragon was eating on it. The dust is what's left of yesterday. The moon to find the way to the dream. The sun to heal wounds, coloring flowers, to make the lake a mirror.
The dust is what's left of yesterday. The moon to find the way to the dream. The sun to heal wounds
They still don't let us go out on the street. Not, we can't go out to play. Sight, we sit and read a book. Sight, in our country there are forests full of fairies, castles, giant, pixies on the branches.
The water has been spilled on the sofa. Nothing happens. It's just water. It will dry by itself.
It's almost time for "Paparuda", of the rain spells that are done in summer. Close your eyes and I drop droplets on your face, close your eyes that I blow on your eyelids as if it were the wind. Today we are in the mountains. Today life is in Romanian: "It's good when it ends well", my grandmother said. "All good things end good".
The garbage truck anchors us to reality.
Mommy, catch me.
Yes. Runs. Its 50 square meters smothered with furniture.
Let's run.
How fast, I can hardly reach you.
Mommy, I love you.
I can hardly reach your purity.
Mommy, I'm a wolf.
And then exile is no longer exile. We are the time. We are the world.
Longing
Soledad. Abandonment. Retirement. Portuguese.
(Anxela is one of those old women who hold the whole earth. He wears black and wears an embroidered handkerchief, knotted under the chin, and some wellies. He works in his garden with a hoe. The church chimes are heard in the distance).
"My flesh makes me tremble, Bieito, every time the bells ring to death.
Look what things happen you and me, but this pandemic, these days, everything seems made of another substance, as if it were an apocalypse a little bit trapalled.
I only find boulders; even the earth is collected.
I do not know, Bieito. They have sent us all to our site, we can not even go to the mountain. It's like an extension of mourning, that is already fine. A virus they say. The little children are all sheltered. Our kids call and say they won't come to see me. What the fuck, what a shame. They don't come to see me because they never come, what if now the seam is, what if now that other. Not, in, this loneliness is not a virus thing, it is a thing of this poverty of ours, mine, of having given birth to creatures that time has ripped from my belly, of the hands. I'm going to die here alone, in this orchard-grave, and they won't realize until they come for potatoes.
Not, in, this loneliness is not a virus thing, it is a thing of this poverty of ours, mine
Also the animals, Bieito. The two cows gave birth to lunancos; two dead calves that looked like a stifle in the mud. The females mooed like any female on earth. Moon, Bieito, badly born females, you said. How much to suffer. (Look around).
How alone we have been. All the old countrymen waiting for death and the young ones scared. How unfair. The least is dying in dear eyes. It will be bad if I die and not even the clouds are going to rush.
Moon, Bieito, what else to tell you, that if my voice is silent, it is as if I had already died ".
h-space Alfaragh
Empty. Arab.
The muezzin's voice enters through the window and I'm naked. "Pray at home", sings. The mosques have been emptied, like night clubs, the cafes and schools.
I break the fast with a date. Meat is missing from the table, figs are missing, syrup, mother and father. I'll fill myself with a plate of rice. That's enough. Sickness has stripped this Ramadan; has freed him from excesses and vileness. Has stripped you of the mundane. It will not be others who admire our dresses and precious metals.
We will be alone. No judge or trial.
God has abandoned the temples and taken to the streets. God: the hands of the doctors. God: farmer. God: feeding mother. God: the old woman who cleans. Suddenly loneliness on the left and fear on the right. We are no longer lambs waiting for the sacrifice. We no longer wait for mercy to save us. Trust only in the meat, dwellers of the earth. The new Cartesian order will be Caliph, will be prophet.
Religion no longer dusty and dark. No more secret police forcing the creed. Each prayer is a mother that rocks the child.
Quarantine and bitter Ramadan. The royal sacrifice. Intimate. I don't care about the neighbor because she's dead
Quarantine and bitter Ramadan. The royal sacrifice. Intimate. I don't care about the neighbor because she's dead. The next time I choose a house I will do it thinking about curfews. Next time I swear my love will be to a train ticket seller. God asks for political asylum in our stomachs. In our bodies of sodomites and prostitutes. Sight, God, i am your hands. Look god, saved lives. Look god, I'm naked and I kiss and I love. Al-tawhid. The unity of Allah. Look god, this living is not a sin. The only aberration is that your children cry in pain and you look away.
When I was little I thought that the dust was particles of the sun entering through the window. I opened my mouth a lot and swallowed them, to be the star king. My mother told me it was desert sand. That is why I am a specialist in carrying loneliness; I am made of dirt and dunes.
Life is now a threshold. All exiled in their own land. You too, God. You've finally come down to earth. See how we sweeten the sorrow: dates, turmeric, saffron, females and males and a bit of drool.
God, you are also the disease.
And humanity, finally, your guardian.
Talaaq
Divorce. Urdu.
“Divorce, divorce, divorce ”. "I divorce you, i divorce you, I divorce you ". Immediately after the husband spoke those words, the newly divorced received confirmation that both had contracted the virus.
Quarantine.
Home-cage.
But, the isolation of two people who no longer expect anything from each other, It turned out to be more bearable than his years of love and freedom.
Suddenly Bisma found himself laughing daily when Ameer offered him tea saying:
"Good Morning, cage mate ".
They both looked out the window together and admired their beloved Lahore full of flowers in the windows.
-"Humanity trembles in unison, we are the same fear with a thousand countenances ”- said Bisma. And Ameer fed on his words, he integrated them into his entrails. Problems in the mouths of others allowed distance, allowed the distance that understanding required.
"The temples in silence. The mosques in silence. Perhaps the noisy prayers have scared the Gods away ", Ameer said. And Bisma looked into his eyes and saw light.
When they stopped belonging, they could get closer. Laws protect the bodies but stifle the spirit.
They both passed isolation being relief.
When the pandemic passed, they left home. They each departed in one direction.
At dusk they returned.
And every morning, Ameer said: “Buenos, days companion ".
Because love was no longer a cage, it was trip.
