Writing Against Forgetfulness
Sara Al-Jak
(When you dont find your passion, youre tossed around by others)
After graduating in 2002, I worked in several engineering-related jobs, including being a kitchen engineer. I jokingly bestowed that title upon myself, as there was no job that could accommodate my fatigue and my lack of commitment to office hours.
Architecture captivated me in two ways: the design itself, not the drawing or the transfer, which is rarely required in todays job market for medium-sized companies like the ones we used to work for, and the second was working on-site directly with people, overseeing the translation of whats on paper to reality step by step, which was enjoyable and provided a satisfactory level of contentment. I shifted between different roles, from office work to executive follow-up positions.
In one of those jobs, I was an aluminum kitchen engineer at Mohamed Abdel Haleems companies. I moved between its branches, Khartoum 2 near Al-Ayyam newspaper, and Bahri branch of the institution. In Bahri branch, my colleague and I took turns in two shifts: the morning shift starting at ten and ending at three-thirty, and the evening shift starting at three-thirty and ending at nine-thirty to accommodate the tenth hour. Half an hour to review the latest accounts and tasks that would accompany us the next day, and to ensure the accuracy of the entries in all the notebooks. The computer was placed there like an antique or a cute decoration because we mostly designed on paper, avoiding the hassle of the moody printer.
Meanwhile, I spent most of my time at the house where my mother was born, in Diyum Bahri, under the ancient neem tree, where they gathered to drink tea, prepare food, and spend days there, both in summer and winter. One of the questions that imposed itself on me during that period was: Who are we?
With limited knowledge and a narrow horizon, I attempted to answer this question, the question of identity, based on historical narratives from the indoctrinating school curriculum. I wrote "Al-Matuqa" (The Strangled), a novel that was neither published nor will ever be. I wrote "Al-Matuqa" on the computer at Mohamed Abdel Haleem Aluminum Companys Bahri branch, while we watched the newlyweds coming out of the neighboring hair salon or the brides from the opposite beauty salon, or while we exchanged gossip about a girl heartbroken by a lover who didnt show up at the nearby cafeteria.
I wrote a page of it that my neighbor at the exhibition, who sold installment coolers, read and told me, "Keep writing, because female pens are few. Write and unveil your hidden worlds, so we may understand, and because everyone sings to their own tune." I wrote "Al-Matuqa" to answer my nagging question, awaiting the revelation of hidden womens worlds.
I typed it in an internet café in Maznine above the café where lovers meet. I printed the three copies required by the committee of Abdul Karim Marghani Novel Contest for the same year. I printed them for a hundred pounds, paid by my father and kept for emergencies, at a time when my mother saw what I was doing as pure nonsense. I wrote some paragraphs of "Al-Matuqa" with pen and paper under the neem tree amidst the mockery of my aunts and friends, but I didnt pay attention to them at the time. Years later, I learned that our neighbor in the exhibition, who sold cooler refrigerators on installments, was a theater professor at one of the universities. I got bored and quit working at the exhibition, and a few months later, it was liquidated, and its activity shifted from aluminum to another activity that I dont remember.
I retreated to the calmness of our house in Haj Youssef for some time. I returned to being the girl who doesnt expect anything. Time passes, and I embrace its minutes, between ordinary commitments and taking care of my femininity. I arrange my girly possessions differently every day and celebrate the scent of the perfume I spray on my clothes. I hate winter among the seasons; I hate the foggy hour before the Maghrib call to prayer. I spend the day sleeping after returning from our neighbors "People of Bliss" every afternoon. I followed the weekly cultural files in all the newspapers, still unemployed. I dared one day and wrote two stories. The first one was rejected because it was written in a poetic format, while the second one was published in the "New Voices" section of Al-Sahafa newspaper in May of the same year. I didnt win the novel prize for that year. A novel cant win while answering a big question with childish writing abilities. On November 19th, the house phone rang, and I was between wakefulness and sleep, tossing in my bed under the window overlooking the orange tree, with the scent of its newly ripe fruits wafting in the air. Before that, I exchanged some words with my grandfather Abdul Jalil before handing him a cup of breakfast tea. I was relaxed and calm; I was the first one to insist to have a phone. His number was among the data I filled in the form of Abdul Karim Marghani when applying for the novel. I answered the caller; his voice was steady:
Peace be upon you, Im asking for Ms. Sara Al-Hamza Al-Jak.
I said: And peace be upon you.
From here, the story began, the story of life and friends. Life is nothing but a collection of stories and wishes.
The caller with the steady voice was Professor Walid Surkati, whose name became associated with the following years, encouraging, motivating, and promising. I had forgotten about the prize and resented the winners, living my daily life, starting with my morning chat with my grandfather and the morning tea cup, and some small talk with my mother, and preparing some soft, powdered Jabana (Coffee). I didnt drink Jabana at the time and didnt like tea. I admired their rituals and that intimate, unifying session, which was the reason we were diverted from the imaginary successes that awaited us. That was my view of that session. Now, after several years, I learned that it shaped us, and without it, we would have wandered in the desert of Bani Israel.
Back to setting up the coffee session under the orange tree with its fragrant scent in the backyard of the house. This space connects between my moms kitchen and the alley of graininess. Due to our close relationship, we simply call her by her name, Numah. The balcony overlooks her and her window, which has been my window to the world for years to come. What distinguishes this space the most is that it is furnished with sand that is renewed from time to time. I hold the medium-length palm broom. The long one is for the tiled rooms and the house interior, the medium one for the sand, and the short one for the literary room. Its medium because its fronds are short and havent died yet, adept at sweeping the sieve from the earths sand. I extend the hose, wash the orange tree from yesterdays dust, and it gifts me with dew, so it gifts me with fragrance, sip by sip, to become part of it. I continue spraying the entire yard, absorbing the earths dew, the footsteps of the household, their memories, and songs. When I reach the door, the ground dries slightly, so I take my soft-bristled broom, sweep it over the sand particles, collect the farewell letters from the orange leaves, and some dirt brought by the wind. It doesnt take much time; Numah takes her place near the kitchen door and starts calling out:
"Wheres the strainer, wheres the pestle?"
"Ill get them for you, Numah, just give me a sec to finish my coffee, will you?"
"Just hurry up and get this mess sorted out."
And I hand her all the utensils one by one, the strainer, the cheese, the sieve. Often, its just the two of us. "So, are you drinking your coffee outside now?" She asks without lifting her head from cleaning the coffee grounds. "The coffee brings people together," I reply. It adds to the fragrance of the orange tree, the scent of yesterdays red embers, and the smell of the coffee beans afterward, infusing the air with fragrances that give the backyard a special hue. A distinct scent known only to those familiar with the place, whether residents or visitors. In a moment, the scent of the place spreads to encompass the whole house, drawing those inside out and welcoming those outside in. Passersby, young people gathered at Issas childrens playground; the circle is filled with camaraderie and morning news exchange. My place in the gathering was always the kitchen threshold, sitting there because its a middle ground between Numahs requests and the yard. The gathering continues; the sun creeps upon us, and we creep under the kitchen walls shade, while the nostalgic scent of the orange tree envelops us. The stories captivate us, and we forget our phones.
Returning to the voice coming through the phone, Sarah Hamza inquires, "Is this Sarah Hamza?"
"Yes, its me," I reply.
"Youve been nominated to participate in the creative writing workshop that will last for three days. It will start the day after tomorrow at 3 p.m. at the French Cultural Center, that sanctuary that represented a place I was reluctant to step into while being actively involved. Ill approach it without looking at its frequent visitors through the eyes of a tourist," I said to a close friend. I prepared myself for a writing workshop at the French center and wandered into the girls boutique? That was her reaction. "No, no, thats a place for learning French," I continued to explain the place to her. She knew it like the back of her hand and told a legendary story about the places visitors and students. I asked her if she had ever visited it. She slapped her chest in disbelief, saying, "Me? Never."
The long-awaited day arrives at 11 a.m. Everything left of Numahs cheese, the orange tree, and all the domestic details, calmness and anticipation for an event to come, an event that I didnt know would change the course of my life, a course drawn by others, of which I was only a part in the second person. A meticulously arranged feminine wardrobe, with colors graded in the arrangement of clothes, lengths in the arrangement of perfume bottles. I stood before the organized choices, and the burnt brown skerkirt was chosen, designed in the shape of a fish. A design that gives me extra centimeters, a shirt in a burgundy color with added black and a hint of red. The matching scarf and dress were purchased earlier, making their distinction and inclusion in the outfit automatic. I completed the details of my preparation to go out as required, and the kindness of the place was that it only needed one mode of transportation, and the kindness of the time was that it was contrary to the time of employees leaving for the city or near it. I arrived at the place exactly on time. I opened the door with a neutral smile and no anticipation, which made my feeling more of exploration. I dont remember who was at the reception, but he was a person enveloped in affectionate kindness. He smiled and pointed to the entrance of the hall just two steps away from where he was sitting.
The hall was a glass room, with a conference table surrounded by twelve chairs. Najwa Barakat sat in the chair opposite the door directly. I entered the hall, greeted her, and she responded better than I did. I sat next to her on the left, and we started chatting until the rest arrived one by one. General greetings were exchanged, and then the first session began with introductions. She introduced herself, her resume, and her determination to train in the field of novel writing, then she got to know us, and I was the last to be introduced, as we started from the right where Amani Abu Salim sat, and Salma Al-Shaikh Al-Salamah. Rania Mamoun apologized for her absence due to personal reasons.
Also present were all the distinguished story writers whose names had shone before I met them and continued to shine. Inside me, a new spirit emerged that I had not known before, a spirit thirsty for knowledge and discovery. A spirit that had been oppressed for too long, forced to sit in the auditorium of the engineering department at the College of Applied Sciences in Khartoum. The spirit that was obliged to wear the face of an engineer, which was not suitable for her and never would be. The job that doesnt represent your passion is like your mothers spouse, because it only fulfills your basic needs, the need for intellectual knowledge or the need for the customary financial income. From my place, I apologize to myself, the writer. I ask her forgiveness for the pain and sorrow I caused her on her journey of confusion and loss. I dont offer excuses, but I was ignorant of the way. I truly didnt know. If I had known how much I hurt you, if I had known, I would have paved the way with sand and roses. My thirsty soul absorbed every word and letter of the trainer. She asked me, "Do you write novels despite your young age and experience?" I told her, "Im not young, but my experience with novel writing is new." Since then, I have worked to balance my writing experience with my life experiences. Now, it no longer bothers me; the writer does as she pleases, and so does Sarah, with her own choices. After that, my stories were published in various cultural files after the removal of the phrase "new voices." Several experiences afterward strengthened the position, presence, and stance of writing, most notably my tenure at Al-Ayyam newspaper and the Sudanese Story Club.
