Page 12 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

H— NARIN

By the River Tigris, 2014

‘ M y grandma is a healer. She cures people who can’t help feeling sad.’

Narin’s cousins are visiting Turkey from Germany. A branch of the family moved to Hanover in the early 2000s, and they always come back around this time of the year. Narin is delighted to see the two children, who are older than her and speak fluent German. She wants to impress them a little.

‘And how does she do that?’ asks the boy, crossing his arms.

‘I don’t exactly know how she does it, but she uses water to treat her patients. She’s a water-dowser.’

‘What is that?’ asks the girl.

‘It’s a special talent, and it runs in our family,’ says Narin proudly. ‘Grandma can find underground streams, even when they’re hidden. I’ve seen her do it. Her fingers twitch and curl when she gets close to a source. Sometimes she uses rods. She has to whittle them at dawn, so they can catch the first rays of sun. It’s something she learnt from her grandmother Leila. One day she’ll teach me how to do it, and then, when I’m grown up, I’ll pass on the secret to my grandchildren!’

‘Why haven’t we ever seen her dowse?’ asks the boy.

‘Because she’s getting old and she doesn’t do it much any more – and you two are away anyway.’

Although they sometimes quarrel, Narin is delighted to have her cousins’ company. As an only child, she often wonders what life might have been like if she’d had siblings, and these are the moments when she can inch ever closer to finding the answer. When her cousins speak Kurdish, it is peppered with words in Turkish, and when they speak Turkish they almost instantly switch to German, which is their strongest language. Narin knows that her aunt and uncle are not wealthy people, and they work hard to earn a living, but they never fail to bring her the most amazing presents – rucksacks with shimmering front panels, pencils that smell like strawberries, chocolate bars and hazelnut wafers that taste divine … She wants to eat the treats in one go, they are that delicious, but Grandma rations them.

In honour of the guests, breakfast is a feast today: fried green peppers with yogurt sauce, sour-cherry jam, sweet-chilli marmalade, glazed halloumi and dried figs, bulgur-stuffed aubergines with tamarind, currants and pine nuts, pistachio tahini halva, hummus with flatbread, scrambled eggs with red pepper, cheese with wild garlic, and the first batch of honey from the beehive, topped with clotted cream … In a corner a samovar hisses away on a bed of coals that glows like rubies. Grandma loves the strong tea from Russia, which she drinks with a cube of sugar squeezed between her teeth. She says if you drink tea this way, the words you speak will be sweeter.

Next they take their guests to the cemetery on the outskirts of the village. It is important that ancestors be properly honoured. You cannot simply amble over to their graves. You first need to wash your body, polish your shoes, comb your hair. It does not matter whether your clothes are old or new, cheap or expensive. The dead do not care about such trivialities. But it matters that you are clean – inside and out.

When they enter the graveyard with its dilapidated tombstones, overgrown weeds and turf-covered mounds, Grandma spearheads the group. The women and children form a circle, while the men remain close at hand, observing quietly. Narin knows that whenever there is a memorial gathering, it is an elder female who must lead the way. Mourning is a woman’s job – and so is remembrance.

Afterwards the adults walk ahead, chatting to each other, and the children linger behind.

Her girl cousin flicks a sideways glance at Narin. ‘I hear your father is taking you to Iraq – will you visit the holy Valley of Lalish?’

‘Yes,’ says Narin, beaming.’ It’s going to be wonderful. Grandma is coming, too, of course. We’re all travelling together.’

The boy chips in, ‘Is it true what they say about you?’

‘What are they saying?’ asks Narin, even though she can guess the answer.

‘That soon you’ll go deaf.’

Narin lets out the breath she did not know she was holding. ‘It won’t happen right away; I have several more months, I think – maybe a year.’

‘That’s terrible,’ says the boy. ‘I’d hate to be you.’

‘Shut up!’ the girl shouts at her brother. ‘You’re being rude.’

‘What? It’s not like she doesn’t know what’s going to happen!’

‘I said shut up!’

Leaving them to their quarrel, Narin swerves to the edge of the cemetery. She heads towards the oak tree under which the Englishman is buried. The tombstone is weathered by years of sun and wind, and covered in patches of moss, glistening like green velvet against the dull background. A heartbeat later her cousins catch up with her.

‘Who is this?’ the girl asks.

‘The Englishman,’ replies Narin. ‘You never heard of him?’

The cousins shake their heads.

‘Grandma says he was looking for a poem. He travelled from England, and he died here of thirst.’

The boy chuckles. ‘He died of thirst by the River Tigris? That’s some ending!’

Narin says, ‘I don’t know how it happened. Can you read what it says on the stone?’

The boy shrugs. ‘It’s not German.’

The girl draws closer. ‘It’s in English. Let me have a go. I learnt a bit at school.’ Her finger strokes the air as she reads out loud: ‘King … Arthur … of …’ She clasps her hands. ‘Oh, how amazing! This man was a king!’

For a moment the three of them stand still, studying the fading inscription. ‘Can you translate the rest?’ asks Narin.

‘Not sure. What does “sewer” mean?’ The girl squints as if a clearer view might help. ‘King Arthur of something and something … His date and place of birth; and then, his date and place of death.’

‘That’s it?’ asks Narin.

‘That’s it,’ says the girl firmly.

‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ says the boy. ‘Wouldn’t an English king have a stately grave – with marble and gold?’

‘Maybe he was toppled,’ suggests his sister. ‘Like the French king in the Revolution.’ She raises and drops her hand, imitating the fall of a guillotine.

‘What was he doing here anyway?’ says the boy.

‘Probably some colonizer,’ says his sister. ‘Why do they ever come?’

Narin purses her lips. She does not know what ‘colonizer’ means, but does not want to admit it.

‘Come on, I’m bored, let’s go!’ declares the boy.

With that, the siblings run off towards the grown-ups in the distance. Left alone, Narin touches the tombstone, her fingers tracing the letters.

King Arthur of the Sewers and Slums

Born by the River Thames 1840

Died by the River Tigris 1876

‘Hi, Arthur …’ she says. ‘I’m sorry you’ll be submerged in water when they finish building the dam. Our houses and grapevines and fig groves, even Grandma’s pistachio trees, will drown … Hasankeyf is going to disappear. It’s very sad, but there’s nothing we can do about it. The government wants us all to leave. You won’t be seeing our community again.’

‘Narin!’

The girl does not hear that they are calling her, until Grandma, walking back, enters her field of vision.

‘I’m coming, Grandma!’

Narin glances at the grave, drops her voice. ‘But I’ve good news, too. We’re travelling to Iraq. I’ll be baptized in the holy Valley of Lalish. After we return to Hasankeyf, I’ll visit you again. I promise.’ The wind, picking up, tears loose her braid. She pushes her hair away from her face. ‘Then we need to move to a big city. It’s all a bit scary. Were you also scared when you left your home?’

‘Narin, hurry up!’

The child nods at her grandmother.

‘Bye, Arthur. I’ll come and see you again soon.’

Yet, just as she is leaving, something distracts her; an impulse she can scarcely define makes her look towards the family plot on the opposite side, where her mother and many of her relatives are laid to rest. She notices a detail she has missed on all her previous visits to the cemetery.

The grave of her great-great-grandmother Leila is situated diagonally across, pointing east towards the sunrise as is the custom, but in such a way as to directly overlook the Englishman’s resting place. It is as though, in her afterlife, she is keeping a watchful eye on him. By her grave, too, there is an old oak tree.

Later they have dinner in the garden – relatives and neighbours sitting around large copper trays carrying a panoply of succulent dishes. This is not just any dinner but a mortuary feast, organized as much for the living as for the dead. There are three parties to this gathering: the hosts, the guests and the deceased. Food is a language that brings them together beyond the borders of time and place.

Stuffed vine leaves, fried kibbe balls, chargrilled chicken kebabs, roast lamb with spices and a large plate of rice tahdig . They eat not only for themselves but also for the miriyan – those who are no longer of this world. As Narin chews the bread of the dead, nane miriyan , she reflects on the souls of her ancestors. Her mind keeps looping back to one in particular: Leila. Is it true that she was a healer far superior to all others, a seer who could read minds and speak the language of birds?

Narin eats heartily, as she is fond of tahdig – ‘the bottom of the pot’ – with its crispy crust at the base of cooked rice. Amid the din of easy chatter, the child misses some sounds but not Grandma’s laughter, which washes over her like fresh water.

That evening, Narin goes to bed early, sleeps fitfully. She wakes up with a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she were falling from a great height. Her right ear is ringing again, and it is scary and unsettling, but she decides not to tell anyone, in case they might want to cancel the trip to Iraq.

Slowly, she gets out of bed to fetch a glass of water. She does not need to turn on the light. Stretching her arms in front of her, she proceeds by touch in the dark. Her hands guide her, as if they possess a memory of their own. No sooner does she open the door than light pours in. A blend of sounds rises from the next room but she cannot discern what they are saying. Only when she inches much closer does she realize that the grown-ups have stayed up late, drinking tea, smoking, talking.

‘You don’t understand,’ Uncle Elias is saying. ‘I’m telling you, brother, this region is in big trouble. These jihadists are gaining power. No one knows what they are up to.’

‘Yes, but they’re in Syria … It doesn’t affect us in any way.’

Narin lifts her head, thrilled by the timbre of her father’s voice. She takes a step forward, eager to give him a hug. But what her uncle says next stops her mid-stride.

‘I think you should urgently join us in Germany. It’s not safe around here any more. Things are going from bad to worse. Hasankeyf will be flooded. All our memories gone – and just beyond the border is an army of bigots and fanatics. An army! They’re dangerous.’

‘He’s right,’ agrees Aunt Mona. ‘It’s terrifying. We don’t even know who supplies ISIS with weapons. This doesn’t bode well.’

‘Calm down, you two. Otherwise you’re going to make yourselves sick with worry.’

Narin gets closer. She struggles to hear higher pitches, but thankfully Father speaks in a low, measured tone. There is a gentle strength to his words as he carries on with conviction. ‘You want us to leave everything and follow you to Hanover. Even if we agree, will Germany welcome us? How do we get a visa? Let’s say we get past that hurdle, how would I find a job there?’

‘Lots of people do it.’

‘Yes, they do, but many can’t. And those who do, at what cost? We all know how much you have sacrificed.’

‘Life isn’t easy in Germany,’ says Uncle Elias. ‘When we first moved to Hanover, the Germans hadn’t even heard of the Yazidi faith. In their eyes we were all Turkish and that was it. And then they learnt a little more about the region, but this time they started calling us all Kurdish, and that was it. Again, we tried to explain. It took me years to be able to say openly and without fear, “I am êzid? and I’d much rather you called me êzid? instead of Yazidi, because it leads to a terrible misunderstanding.” They think we are the descendants of Yazid, the Tyrant of Karbala, who killed the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, and they hate us. But we have nothing to do with any of that. Our name solely means “descendants of God”. Our roots go all the way back to Ancient Mesopotamia.’

Uncle Elias pauses, his voice catching. ‘Working in the factory is hard, too. Sometimes my back hurts so much, I can barely move. Almost every week I’m told by some random stranger to go back home. But Germany is my home now – and my children’s only homeland! At least there I don’t have to worry about police knocking on my door in the middle of the night. I don’t have to fear being arrested and tortured.’

‘I hear you, brother, but Mesopotamia is our motherland. This is our ancestral home. You want everyone to pack up and migrate? Look around, how many Yazidis are left in the region? It breaks my heart. There were hundreds of thousands of us once upon a time – and today we are just a handful. Only twelve Yazidis remain in this village – most of them not long for this world. When they, too, are gone, who will remember us? What will remain of us?’

‘What can you do if there is no hope of things getting better? Be practical, I beg you.’

‘There is hope. The Middle East is changing. I have faith in the new generation. The young do not approve of the old ways. They want freedom, dignity, democracy. And they demand the same opportunities as their peers in the West. As for the fanatics, no doubt, they are despicable, but they are here today, gone tomorrow. They cannot intimidate all of us. Why should we be the ones leaving and not our tormentors?’

‘Khaled, you are naive. You don’t understand,’ says Uncle Elias. ‘They’ll never let us live in peace. There is no future for us in this region.’

‘Maybe I am naive. But I’m a musician, brother. I was a kid when I discovered the qanun in the house. They said, “Children can’t touch it, it’s more than a hundred years old.” I wouldn’t stop crying unless they let me hold it. I didn’t sleep properly until I learnt to play it. Now they invite me everywhere. Why? Because people need songs like they need bread and water. People need poetry, beauty, love! So long as the sun rises and rivers flow, there will always be weddings and celebrations and music. Even fanatics cannot change that.’

Silence settles in the room, curling itself around the stove like a listless cat that refuses to move. Gingerly, Narin inches closer.

‘We hear you’re planning to take Narin to Iraq?’ asks Aunt Mona.

‘Yes, I’ve been invited to sing at a few weddings in Mosul and Baghdad. I’ll also meet some friends. Narin and my mother-in-law will come with me. They’ll stay in the old village in Nineveh. That’s where my late wife’s ancestors came from, as you know.’

‘May her soul be on a higher plane.’

‘After that we’ll travel to the holy Valley of Lalish together. The child should have been baptized long ago, but circumstances never allowed. Already her left ear has mostly gone. We want to leave before she loses her hearing completely. The doctor said the right ear could hold on for another year –’

‘She can’t wear a hearing aid?’

‘No, apparently they don’t work for everyone. There are other devices, I’m told, and I’m inquiring, but it’s expensive and –’

He pauses, noticing Narin standing in the doorway.

‘Daddy,’ the girl exclaims, rushing towards him. ‘When did you get home? Why didn’t you wake me up?’

Khaled takes her into his arms and kisses the top of her head. ‘Sweetheart, you were sleeping, I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘Dad, what’s a fanatic?’

Khaled smooths away a strand of hair from his daughter’s forehead. ‘Have you been listening to us?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Words tumble out of her mouth. ‘If those fanatics arrive here, they’ll be flooded. Water will protect us.’

‘You mustn’t worry about these things. Don’t fill your beautiful head with scary thoughts. Promise? Now go to sleep.’

Reluctantly, Narin nods. She walks to the kitchen and fills a glass with water before returning to her room. All the while she can sense the grown-ups are listening to her footsteps, waiting.

Lying in bed, unable to sleep, she notices a detail she missed earlier: during the entire conversation Grandma did not utter a single word. Her grandmother is the most talkative person she knows, and always has something wise to say, and when she speaks people listen. Of everything she has witnessed tonight, it is Grandma’s silence that the child finds the most unsettling.