Page 42 of There Are Rivers in the Sky
—H ZALEEKHAH
By the River Thames, 2018
O n Friday evening Zaleekhah is last to leave the Centre for Ecology and Hydrology. She enjoys working late hours. The lab transforms into a different place when there is no one around, the silence in the building almost tangible. It reminds her of a rock standing sentinel by a riverside, weighed down by accretions of moss and the passage of time, a steady observer of things that fade as all around it plants and smaller life forms decompose and spring back to life.
Under the light of an angled desk lamp, Zaleekhah peers into the microscope. On the glass slide, moving ceaselessly, are thousands of unicellular microorganisms. The bacterium Vibrio cholerae . Minuscule culprits capable of eradicating human lives. Although it is easy to assume that cholera, widely eliminated in industrialized societies, is no longer a threat, the deadly disease has never entirely disappeared, still cutting swathes through populations in developing countries. With the destruction of the environment and contamination of aquatic supplies, it is only a matter of time before new cases erupt worldwide. In merely a few decades, one in four children across the world will be living in places where water is so polluted that drinking it will kill them.
She takes off her latex gloves, removes her safety goggles. Gestures she has repeated so many times that they have become daily rituals. The tight straps have left a red weal around her eyes, as they always do. She tidies the papers on her desk, then turns on her computer and enters the latest data from the files a researcher dropped in her in-tray earlier.
In the last six years, she and her team have studied over three hundred locations across the globe to see how climate change is affecting their signature characteristics, including flow volumes, silting and biodiversity. Every day they download data from gauging stations – from South America to Australia and eastern USA – noting the levels of water. The changes in hydroclimate come with an increasing risk of inundation. Zaleekhah knows there is no region in the world that is safe from flooding.
Today she enters the data from the River Tigris. She has been keen to work with scientists from the Fertile Crescent, a particularly vulnerable region, which in this very century will disappear completely. The arc sweeping from the Mediterranean to the Persian Gulf is fast drying up. Shared by Iraq, Iran, Syria and Turkey, the largest wetland ecosystem in the Middle East is dying.
Zaleekhah has always found it mystifying that Uncle has never shown any interest in going back to the region, not even for a holiday. He has cut all ties with his childhood, like a discarded toy that he has outgrown. She remembers a conversation they once had in her student days about how various types of salmon, born in fresh water but migrating to oceans, return to their birthplace to die. Uncle had listened, but a curtain had closed in his face. And, although they had talked about fish and nothing else that day, Zaleekhah knew they both thought the same thing: Uncle was not like that. He would never return to the waters where he was born. He had swum as far and as fast as he could – away from his motherland.
An hour later, Zaleekhah steps out of the building. As she closes the door, her phone rings. It’s Helen.
‘Sorry to call you so late, darling.’
‘That’s all right. Is everything okay?’
‘I’ve incredible news, I couldn’t wait to share. We found a donor!’
‘Really?’ Zaleekhah’s face lights up. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Yes … yes … My father took care of everything.’
‘Fantastic! I’m so happy for you – and all the family.’
‘Oh, thank you! I’m still processing the news.’
Zaleekhah retrieves her keys from the bottom of her overstuffed handbag. Switching the phone to her other hand, she locks the door. ‘You must be so relieved.’
‘I am … fingers crossed. I don’t want to take anything for granted. Not any more. I’m so afraid that something will go wrong last minute.’
‘Sweetheart, you can’t think like that. It’s all going to be fine. So which hospital will she be at? Guy’s? Chelsea?’
‘Neither. We’re going to Istanbul – it’s a top-notch clinic, Dad assures me. He knows the doctor in charge. We’ll all travel together.’
‘Istanbul? When?’
‘In about three weeks. They’ll let us know when to come.’ Helen pauses. ‘Could you maybe take some time off?’
‘Definitely,’ Zaleekhah says. ‘I’ll make sure I’m free. I want to be there.’
‘Oh, that means the world to me. And, umm, Zaleekhah … my father can be overbearing at times, but he means well. Don’t be too upset if he tries to dissuade you from going through with the divorce. He’s been so preoccupied with Lily that he didn’t have time to have a proper talk with you, but it’s definitely been on his mind. I’m sure he’ll now embark on his new campaign – SOZM, Save Our Zaleekhah’s Marriage. You’re aware that it’s his way of showing how much he loves you. He’ll move heaven and earth for the people he loves.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘Honestly, every daughter adores her father, but this whole ordeal made me realize what a special man he is. Incredibly giving, supportive. Same for me, same for you, there is no difference at all. He’s always there for his family, any time we need him.’
‘True,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘I never forget how lucky we are. I just need to gently break it to him I’m not going back to Brian. I don’t see that happening.’
Helen sighs. ‘All right, darling. It’s your call. I love you. I’ll book Istanbul tickets when the time comes.’
‘Sounds good. I love you, too.’
The next evening Zaleekhah invites Nen for dinner. Since she is not a good cook and she doesn’t have much by way of kitchenware in the houseboat, she orders food from a Lebanese restaurant nearby. Baba ghanoush , tabbouleh, falafel, pita chips, rice and lentils. She has used paper plates and wooden spoons, recycled and biodegradable, instead of proper ones, knowing that Nen wouldn’t mind.
A little after seven, running a bit late, Nen turns up wearing a black-and-white handprinted blazer made of salvaged vintage fabrics and deadstock garments, flowing trousers and a long silver hoop hanging from one earlobe. She carries a backpack slung over one shoulder and has a wooden crate piled with oranges in her hands.
‘What’s this?’
‘Your monthly stock of vitamin C.’
She opens the backpack and takes out a coffee-maker, a bag of coffee and a bunch of dried lavender. ‘I had a spare machine at home, so I brought it with me, in case you’d like to keep it.’
‘I would, very much. Thank you!’
Smiling, Nen tips the crate over by the armchair, the oranges rolling in all directions, like miniature fiery suns, brightening up the entire space.
‘Now, do you have a tablecloth?’ asks Nen.
‘I have a shawl.’
‘Perfect.’
They spread it over the upended crate, turning it into a little table. It looks charming, like something out of a children’s book. It looks easy. Nen makes lots of things easy.
The food, much to Zaleekhah’s relief, turns out to be delicious, and, slowly, she manages to relax. Maybe her simple dinner won’t be a failure after all. A breeze wafts into the houseboat through the window – the faint scent of the river, full of promise. Zaleekhah finds herself talking about the latest data from the Tigris, the alarming drop in its water levels. Nen is a good listener, attentive and patient, and Zaleekhah realizes she enjoys telling her about her work.
‘It’s not only climate change,’ Zaleekhah says. ‘The construction of dams in Turkey, upstream, makes everything worse for Iraqis, downstream. It drastically reduces the flow of water. When one country builds massive dams, it has consequences for its neighbours.’
‘It’s so sad,’ says Nen. ‘These legendary rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates … born from a woman’s tears.’
‘What’s that?’ asks Zaleekhah. ‘I don’t know that story.’
‘Oh, it’s quite a story.’
‘Tell me.’
Nen pours herself a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen, checking whether the sink is leaking. She sits back on the floor, which she finds more comfortable than the stool or the armchair. Then she says:
‘ In those days, in those far-off days … in olden times … the sky and the land were one. The world was a blank tablet, waiting for the first words to form. Everything was in harmony – bitter waters and sweet waters blended seamlessly. Tiamat was the goddess of the sea – the saltwater – and Apsu was the god of springs – the fresh water. They were very different, but they fell in love.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘From their union rose other deities. When her beloved husband was killed, Tiamat wanted revenge. She was formidable, strong-willed. She assembled an army of mythical creatures and charged against the forces of Marduk – her arch-enemy. The war went on for a long time, but Marduk came up with a plan. He asked the wind to enter Tiamat’s mouth. Her body grew as big as the world. He then easily killed her with an arrow. Earth was created from her decomposing body, and from her crying eyes sprang the two legendary rivers of Mesopotamia: Tigris and Euphrates.’
‘That’s brutal,’ says Zaleekhah.
Nen takes an orange and starts peeling it. ‘Compared with the Mesopotamian Creation story, Adam-and-Eve-and-the-forbidden-fruit is a walk in the park.’
‘So both rivers were made from a woman’s tears.’ Zaleekhah pauses, and then hears herself saying, ‘I’m so tired of feeling sad all the time.’
If Nen is surprised to hear this, she does not show it. She nods, a softness to her gaze.
‘I envy happy people,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘Not in a jealous way – it’s more that I’m puzzled by them. I want to study them – put them under a microscope like a specimen. How do they even do it? Whereas I’m always off-balance.’
Nen offers Zaleekhah half of her orange. She says when we look at a person all we see in that moment is a partial image of them, often subconsciously biased. They appear successful and content, and so we conclude there must be something wrong with us, since we cannot be more like them . But that image is not the full reality and nor are we that simple or static. ‘We are all like clay tablets, chipped around the edges, hiding our little secrets and cracks.’
‘Not everyone, though.’
‘Everyone, I promise you. Is there such a thing as absolute happiness? Never-ending success? A perfect marriage? A quick fix to cure anxiety? We want to believe there is – just like Gilgamesh wanted to believe he could live forever. Then we’re defeated, humbled. We learn to accept there’ll always be something amiss, something broken, and unless we are kind to ourselves it won’t change, this feeling of incompleteness.’
‘I guess you’re right. Although I can’t imagine Uncle being like that … He’s experienced many hardships, but he never lets them affect him.’
Nen shifts in her seat. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she says with conviction, as though this is something she has thought about before. ‘Of everyone in your family, even though he seems the most successful, I think he might be the most damaged.’
Zaleekhah fills a glass of water and sits next to Nen, their shoulders touching. She takes a sip. There is a beat of silence as she puts her hand on Nen’s. She says, ‘I like talking to you.’
‘I like talking to you, too.’ Nen turns to look at her fully. Her face hovers only inches away.
Zaleekhah has never kissed a woman before, and, when she does, Nen tastes of oranges.
Sitting so close, Nen’s body feels bigger than Zaleekhah had imagined it; her scent is intoxicating. Freckles spill across her chest, and there is a coppery tint to the hair on her arms, and her left ear is slightly longer than her right ear, or perhaps it is just a trick of the fading light; and all these details, trivial as they are, make Zaleekhah smile. She trails a tentative finger along Nen’s lips, curved and deep crimson, a touch so hesitant that it exposes her disbelief at what she is doing. As though she can read Zaleekhah’s mind, sense her uncertainty, Nen stays still, but holds her with a long and limpid gaze.
‘You are so beautiful,’ says Nen.
‘I am not. I’ve never been pretty.’
‘You serious?’
Zaleekhah shrugs.
‘Look at me,’ says Nen.
‘I am.’
‘No, honestly – look into my eyes. You don’t see yourself in there?’
Zaleekhah peers closer. ‘There’s someone in there.’
‘Use my eyes as a mirror to admire your own beauty.’
‘Is that poetry?’ Zaleekhah smiles. ‘You write?’
‘I wish I could. I’m just a devoted reader.’
Zaleekhah tilts her head, remembering their earlier conversation. ‘The Forgotten Goddess – you said she was the patron of storytellers and poets. Will you tell me more about her?’
‘Oh, I can talk about her forever – you need to stop me if I start rambling.’
‘I like your rambling.’
‘All right, then,’ says Nen as she rises to her feet in one sinuous motion. ‘But first let me make us coffee.’
They called her Nisaba , though, depending on the place and the era, she went by other names, too: Nidaba , Naga, Se-Naga … The goddess of grain and harvest, the one who holds sway over the rain, directing every drop that falls from the sky. In her pictures, she carries, in one hand, a stalk of wheat – the symbol of life, renewal and rebirth; in her other hand, she holds a gold stylus and a tablet of lapis lazuli. The roots of agriculture and the roots of literature are intertwined, and it is none other than Nisaba who braids them like a lock of her hair.
Nisaba is born of the union of heavens and earth, realms that seem so different and distant that it may not be clear what they have in common, and thus her gift – the art of writing – will always represent a desire to efface dualities, dissolve hierarchies and transcend boundaries.
As Mesopotamian cities burgeon and trade flourishes, the need for record-keeping increases. Each transaction must be noted with precision – goods, prices, debts … Yet human memory is fallible. Mnemonic markers – scoring impressions into the bark of trees, scratching charcoal shapes on stones, painting lines on the bones of sheep – are no longer enough. A new method is called for. Something so versatile that it can link numbers and sounds not only to the inanimate but even to abstract ideas and intangible feelings. A more advanced form of script becomes imperative. Writing as a way to remember. But how?
The rivers help, as they always do. The Tigris and the Euphrates bring in huge amounts of silt. The fine-grained tilth, stiff and sticky, is ideal for moulding into tablets when wet, and strong when baked or left to dry in the sun. On these compact slabs the Ancient Mesopotamians enter the daily minutiae – the weight of a sack of barley, the price of beer, the number of workers on a construction site … As cuneiform, originating under the Sumerians, is inherited by the Babylonians and Assyrians, the scribes across the region discover that words, once impressed on stone, live longer than those who have imagined them. Stories venture beyond city walls, traverse deserts and span ravines. To write is to free yourself from the constraints of place and time. If the spoken word is a trick of the gods, the written word is the triumph of humans.
Thus Nisaba’s fame grows. In cylinder seals she appears with her long, luxurious locks of hair carefully groomed into plaits, manifesting controlled, cultivated fecundity, and her eyes dark as the feathers of a starling. She wears a flounced robe, and the jewelled diadem on her head shines like moonlit waters. From her ears dangle stalks of wheat or clusters of dates, jingling with every step she takes. People incise her symbol on monuments and hang her image above the thresholds of their homes. Her name is carved on temple walls, inscribed on amulets. She is the patron of archivists and librarians; the one who whispers into the ears of balladeers and storytellers. They invoke her when in need of inspiration. She comes to their aid in moments of confusion. She is the chronicler of time, the collector of stories, the custodian of memories.
The goddess of writing documents the good and the bad: celebrations and lamentations, victories and defeats, beauties and atrocities, all that makes humans resilient and vulnerable in equal degree. In parts of Mesopotamia, she is so highly venerated that she is not only entrusted with recounting legends and tales but also with settling disputes and mending grievances. Justice, if it is to be at all meaningful, needs to be recorded.
When Mesopotamian bards recite ballads of heroism and heartbreak, it is Nisaba who plants a kiss on their lips. When students wake at the crack of dawn to practise their letters, it is Nisaba who guides their faltering fingers. The wedge-shaped script, advancing from city to city, becomes more elaborate with the years, as does the goddess herself. It is not just those whose task it is to catalogue merchandise and register transactions who refer to her in their writings; scholars, priests, mathematicians and astronomers do so as well. The temple at Eresh, dedicated to Nisaba, is known as Esagin , the ‘House of Lapis Lazuli’, for this is her stone and this is her colour. The goddess of knowledge and storytelling is imagined in the deepest shade of blue.
Centuries pass by; time leaves its traces like the bronze patina on a mirror’s surface. The sun transcribes many a golden arc across the Mesopotamian skies, and Nisaba evolves into the goddess of literacy, literature and libraries. ‘Glory be to my lady’ is emblazoned on the walls of scribal schools. Clay tablets end with the same four words:
Praise be to Nisaba
Writing is a craft like any other. It must be learnt from the masters, pursued with dedication and practised daily, until your fingers blister, your back hunches, your eyesight starts to dim. Schools spring up far and wide. Rules are strict, mistakes not tolerated. Both male and female scribes study at these tablet houses, though the numbers of the latter are dwindling fast. Most of the remaining ones retreat to a cloister in Sippar, where they find the freedom to work, at the cost of becoming isolated from the rest of society. Enheduanna, the high priestess at Ur, a poet who breathes life into words and a devotee of Nisaba, senses things are deteriorating. She now has enemies everywhere. There are those who say that women should not be allowed to rule or counsel leaders, nor should they be allowed to write.
And so it begins, the slow death of the goddess of writing. There are still sanctuaries dedicated to her, and she is remembered and revered by some, but they keep their thoughts to themselves. Nisaba is a name to be uttered with caution.
In the time of Hammurabi of Babylon, a new fear enters hearts. The harshest punishments are set into laws, terror inscribed in stone. The code favours might, the code favours men – and therefore women, children, slaves, outsiders and men who do not have any power or wealth are all deemed inferior. Hammurabi’s wrath is particularly reserved for those who transgress. A wife who accidentally hurts her husband’s testicles is to be punished more severely than a habitual thief or even a cold-blooded murderer. Women accused of neglecting their homes are cast into the river. The Tigris, ever patient with the ways of humans, receives their bodies.
In the present order, the goddess of writing is stripped of her powers, all of which are now assigned to a male god – Nabu . From now on Nabu will be the patron of literacy and storytelling. Nabu will embody knowledge, memory and wisdom. And in hundreds of schools, young scribes are made to finish their assignments with these four words:
Praise be to Nabu
As for Nisaba, she is transmuted into ‘the loving wife of Nabu’ – faithful, giving and dutiful. Next she becomes his diligent secretary, helpfully hovering in the background. The only vestige of her glorious past is a lapis lazuli pendant in the shape of a stylus that hangs around her neck. Thus expunged not all at once but by degrees, Nisaba retreats into the shadows, from where she watches Nabu gather accolades and adulations. How fast he ascends! As Marduk is crowned the king of the gods, Nabu is declared the son of the king of the gods. He stands tall and proud by his father’s throne, carrying in his hands the blue tablet that once belonged to Nisaba. By the time of the sixth king of the first dynasty of Babylonia, writing is no longer regarded as a suitable occupation for women.
Nabu’s fame will continue to soar, spreading from Mesopotamia to the Mediterranean basin, where he is embraced by multiple civilizations – Greek, Roman and Christian. But the tradition of Nisaba will remain rooted in the very place where it was born, and it will also perish there, her tablets broken, her stylus buried by the banks of the Tigris. The transition complete, the goddess of writing will be erased – the lady of memory forgotten for eternity.
By the time Nen finishes telling the story, the light has faded in the houseboat, and the few possessions within it have transformed into shadows of themselves. Even though Zaleekhah has drunk nothing more intoxicating than Nen’s coffee, her head is swimming.
‘It’s getting late,’ says Nen, rising to her feet. ‘I should make a move.’
‘Wait.’ Zaleekhah is not sure what she wants to say, or what she wants to do, but it feels important that Nen be around when she works it out. ‘Would you like to stay here tonight? I have spare pyjamas I could lend you – if you’d like.’
Nen sits back, coughs a little.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. It’s just I usually sleep naked, but I’ll wear your pyjamas – gladly.’
Zaleekhah flushes – good thing it is too dark for Nen to notice. Or maybe she has already, for Nen now says, ‘We can fall asleep holding hands, nothing else – we’ll be like river otters.’
‘I like otters,’ says Zaleekhah. ‘They link paws so they don’t drift away from each other. That’s how they survive.’
And that is what they do that night. Downstairs on the single bed, they lie down, fingers entwined, listening to the swishing of water against the hull.
‘I can hear lost rivers,’ Zaleekhah says.
‘I can hear your heartbeat,’ says Nen.
Zaleekhah does not expect to fall asleep easily, but she does, feeling a surprising sense of calm, almost at peace.
At 3.34 a.m. Zaleekhah wakes up with a start. She props herself up in bed, her chest tight. She stays still, listening to the gentle rhythmic breathing by her side. She inches away carefully, taking her time to relinquish Nen’s hand. In the grid of moonlight from the shutters, Nen’s body is a softly undulating silhouette. As quietly as she can, Zaleekhah leaves the bed and climbs the stairs.
Upstairs, she drops into the armchair and closes her eyes. Time stills.
‘Zaleekhah?’
It is Nen. Her hair tousled, her feet bare.
‘Are you all right? Why’re you sitting in the dark?’
‘It’s bright enough.’ Zaleekhah gestures at the moon.
‘How long have you been here on your own?’ Nen takes a step closer. ‘Have you been crying?’
Zaleekhah wipes her eye with the back of her hand. ‘I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep; didn’t mean to disturb you.’
Nen pulls up the stool and perches by her side. Then she says, tenderly, ‘When will you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘You were there – I think.’ Nen draws in a breath, releases it. ‘You were with your parents on the night they died. I’ve been thinking about it – thinking about you . Your reaction to water, so visceral, and your sorrow so close to the surface, barely submerged. I think this is what happened. When they travelled to the Middle East, your parents didn’t leave you in London. It was a family holiday. You were seven years old. Something terrible occurred on that trip. You survived; they didn’t.’
A strange noise comes out of Zaleekhah’s lips. Almost a scream but also so faint as to be nearly inaudible.
‘My father loved being outdoors.’ Zaleekhah shakes her head. ‘He was always planning some trip – Hadrian’s Wall, Isle of Skye, the Lake District, Yosemite … But my mother desperately wanted him to see the River Tigris. It was her dream to show him the land she came from. They saved up, skipped summer holidays so they could take time off in the autumn. The plan was to travel from Antalya to Antioch and from there to Mosul. My father was a cautious man. He’d never let us sleep on a dangerous site. This was a safe place to camp. There were cabins. He wanted to stay in one of those, but I insisted on a tent. I thought it’d be a nice adventure. We set up camp close to a stream. Too close. It was raining that evening, not much, though. The flood came so fast –’
‘How did you escape?’
Zaleekhah throws her head back, tears streaming down her face. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night needing the bathroom. I called for my mum, but she was too deeply asleep. I checked the time. It was 3.34 a.m. I couldn’t possibly hold it till morning. I was scared to go to the campsite toilets, but I could pee behind the bushes. So I sneaked out. I was walking back when the flood came –’
Nen takes her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I saw the torrent wash away the tent. My father’s body turned up a few kilometres downstream, but they couldn’t find my mother’s until a day later, trapped in the reeds.’ Zaleekhah lowers her chin. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘It is not,’ whispers Nen. ‘Tell me, if no help came until next morning … did you spend the night there alone?’
Zaleekhah does not answer. Nor does Nen push for a response. They sit silently for a moment, absorbing the weight of what has been left unsaid. Outside the window, the silvery currents of the Thames beat on.
Of the night at the campsite in Turkey, Zaleekhah can remember only traces. Her mind has deftly wiped the rest, leaving just smudges here and there. By contrast, she can recall the next day in minute detail: the column of police cars, a portly, florid-faced male officer chain-smoking, cigarettes piling up in the ashtray, a Turkish flag hanging at the entrance and the radio echoing tinnily from somewhere in the building, in a language so different from her own.
But what she most vividly remembers is Uncle Malek – how he strode into the police station, tall and solicitous, having just flown in from London, a suitcase in one hand and a gift purchased from the airport in the other – a pretty shawl, embroidered around the edges. He did not ask her any questions. He did not press her for an account of what happened. He draped the soft material around her shoulders, though the day was hot, and he told her she would survive this pain and would grow up to be a happy, successful woman. And, although his words were assertive, and his insistence on success disconcerting, the shawl felt comforting somehow; it was something she could disappear beneath, and she did not take it off until they arrived in England.
After that Zaleekhah did not talk for a long time. When she wanted to make herself understood, she would gesture or scribble on a piece of paper. The Maleks never forced her to speak, tiptoeing around her silence as if it were a sleeping baby not to be disturbed. A year later, one morning at breakfast, watching Helen struggle to open a jar of strawberry jam, Zaleekhah leant forward and said, ‘Let me try.’ That her first words should have been so commonplace caused Helen to gape in astonishment, but Uncle Malek pretended everything was normal, nonchalantly passing her the jar. She has no recollection of whether she managed to open the lid, but from that day on she communicated as most people do, in speech.
A couple of times Aunt Malek suggested the child should see a therapist, but Uncle was adamant that what she needed was a stable family environment and goals high enough to keep her mind busy. The family took good care of her. When they thought she was out of earshot, they spoke of her in whispers. She heard them sometimes.