“Thousands of men executed and buried in mass graves, hundreds of men buried alive, men and women mutilated and slaughtered, children killed before their mothers’ eyes, a grandfather forced to eat the liver of his own grandson, thousands of women and girls repeatedly raped. These are truly scenes from hell, written on the darkest pages of human history.”
-International Criminal Court
I have spent the entire night sitting by your bedside, holding your hand. Last night, I selfishly thought you were going to die. I say selfishly because my true concern was “What am I going to do with my life if you’re gone?” You were shuddering so severely, and the fever was so high, that I almost called 999. That’s a nasty bug you caught. But the cold towels I put all over your body and the tea I made for you, infused with various herbs and spices, worked wonders. The fever has now gone down, and the shivering has stopped. At first you were raving in that strange language that I don’t understand, but you eventually fell asleep. Fortunately, Kilmaynham Gaol Street is so quiet at night. Now your face looks so peaceful that no one could guess the horrific memories you are concealing in some deep, dark, and unreachable recess of your mind.
Do you remember when, how and where we first met? I certainly do: it was at the Fortune Terrace Buffet Chinese restaurant on O’Connell Street. I was enjoying the dinner buffet with some friends while you sat alone at the next table. Your dark dress, hair, and eyes immediately drew my attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I told my friends that I was spellbound by you, and they playfully teased me suggesting I was falling in love. I kept glancing your way until you noticed me and then you started doing the same. When you stood up as if you were going to leave, my heart sank. Don’t go, please! I thought. I was relieved when you went to the counter to get more food. We continued to steal glances at one another. At one moment, you grabbed your purse, touched up your lipstick, checked yourself in a small mirror, and ran your fingers through your hair. I felt a rush of happiness thinking that you were doing all that for me.
As the evening came to an end and my friends and I made our way to the door I deliberately walked tight past you, close enough that I nearly brushed against your arm. In that moment I caught a glimpse of the back of your neck, which was strikingly pale, against your dark hair. A sense of despair came over me, as I did not want to leave. Once outside, my friends and I stopped, to chat, but my eyes were fixed on the restaurant’s main entrance, waiting for you to come out. When you finally did, and began walking toward us, I became nervous. I wanted to approach you and strike up a conversation, but then you stepped into the Pick and Pay store. I will never know if you went in to buy a drink, a snack, cigarettes, or a mobile accessory, or if you simply wanted to avoid me, hide from me, or sneak a peek at me from inside.
All the while I was telling my friends about you, and what you were up to. They wanted to head back to the hotel, but I preferred to wait for you to finish shopping. When you finally emerged, we locked eyes for a few seconds, giving me a glimpse into the depths of your black eyes. After that, you continued walking down O’Connell toward the River Liffey. My friends were in a rush; they crossed the street and waited for me at the corner of O’Connell and Eden Quay. Then I reluctantly rejoined them. I looked once more toward the corner of O’Connell and Bachelors’ Walk, and you were still there, standing and watching me. I told my friends to continue on to the hotel without me, assuring them I’d join them later. They cautioned me to be careful.
I crossed the street and joined you. We looked into each other’s eyes before heading to a pub in Temple Bar. There, we enjoyed some beers and chatted before going back to your place, where I spent the night. Are you fucking insane? my friends exclaimed when I told them that I wasn’t going back home and intended to stay here instead. They were completely taken aback. Are you really going to give up a successful life for a fleeting crush? Are you going to stay in a foreign land where you have no friends, no family and no acquaintances, living with a stranger? What will happen when you inevitably grow tired of each other? What will you do when one of you says, “I can’t do this anymore?”
Well, it’s been several years now, and we are still together. I have no desire to leave. I can’t speak for you. What bothers me is, that despite the fact that we have been living together for several years now, I barely know you; you don’t let me get too close; there is an immense chasm surrounding the space where your memories are hidden; I am not allowed to go there. There is a high fence between us that you don’t allow me to jump. It’s funny, my friends even warned me to watch out because you could be a selkie. It is absurd yet, for a while, I was haunted by the fear that you might be one of them—that one day you would hear the call of the sea, retrieve your sealskin from wherever you had hidden it, and return to the waves to reunite with your own kind. I often wondered where you had concealed it. I felt the need to find it and destroy it, to prevent you from leaving me and going back to the ocean. Don't be such an idiot, I would then remind myself, there are no selkies in the Balkans.
While I talk to you sometimes your hand starts trembling, and you mumble something, as if deep inside your sleep, you were listening and wanted to give me the answers that I’ve been begging for. What happened to you in Srebrenica? Was your family slaughtered? Was your house burned down? Was your village razed to the ground? Were you repeatedly raped? How old were you then? How is it possible for anyone, especially someone so young, to survive such extreme violence without losing their sanity? How can I help you, if you don’t talk to me about those things? And at the same time, how can I expect you to unearth the memory of those appalling events from where you have buried them? There they are out of your consciousness, and that is the only way you have had to cope with everything you faced. What kind of god-believing monsters can carry out such horrific acts? How is it that these psychopathic gods allow such terrible events to unfold, looking down indifferently upon us while withholding their supposed power to stop suffering and evil?
The pale morning light filtering into our bedroom makes the dust particles in the air visible, and their gentle movement makes me sleepy. But I don’t want to fall asleep. I don’t feel relieved yet. I want to be awake when you awaken. I want you to see in my face that I am staying with you through both, the happy times and the tough ones. I want to see in your eyes the determination that for the time being you are not going anywhere.
©William Almonte Jiménez, 2023
