The Flood and the Memory of Homes
Mohamed Gholamabi
`Why did you leave the horse alone?
To keep the house company, my son,
For homes die when their residents are gone.`
– Mahmoud Darwish
The image of a little girl clutching her doll tightly to her chest, picking it up every time it slipped from her hands, as she fled her home on a journey into the unknown, is forever etched in my memory. That moment reminded me of Amal Dunqul’s vivid verses in his poem A Special Interview with the Son of Noah. When read in the context of the Sudanese reality, it feels as though Dunqul was writing about the war-flood that now engulfs us:
`The flood of Noah came!
The city is sinking bit by bit.
Birds flee,
and the water rises,
on the steps of houses,
stores,
the post office,
banks,
statues (of our immortal ancestors),
temples,
granaries,
maternity hospitals,
the prison gate,
the governor’s palace,
and the halls of fortified barracks.
Birds evacuate…
slowly…
slowly…
and furniture floats,
a child’s toy,
and a grieving mother’s gasp.
Noah’s flood has come.
Here are the cowards fleeing to the ark.
While I stood…
the youth of the city
were bridling the wild waters,
carrying water on their shoulders,
racing against time,
building stone dams,
hoping to save the cradle of their childhood and civilization,
hoping to save the homeland!`
Dunqul’s imagery perfectly encapsulates the war-flood that has swept over Sudan, engulfing everything. Only the places that clung to the towering mountain of memory have escaped drowning. These places remain alive in the conversations of displaced people in shelters, connected by delicate threads of longing for the homes they left behind. These homes are guarded now by horses, donkeys, cats, dogs, and chickens, as Darwish described, protecting them from death after their residents abandoned them.
It is the expansive home that Baraka Slikn poetically described:
`The house is mine,
and the house of the hurried ants,
the old curtains, the fan.
The house of the two little lizards,
and the mouse.
The house is mine,
and the house of the gecko, the spider,
and the two trapped flies,
and the lurking mottled snake.`
The displaced seek refuge in these memories for solace and cohesion. These narrow spaces in the shelters bring them back to the vast, comforting homes of Al-Jazeera.
In Al-Jazeera, space is abundant, as are generous spirits. The courtyards expand to accommodate `crowds of residents` and stretch leisurely. Even those who moved to the city during peacetime often disdain the confined apartments with locked doors, preferring the inherited ancestral homes. These homes are designed with wide-open spaces and grand reception areas to welcome both transient and long-term guests. Movement between homes is free and filled with affection, as expressed in Hameid’s poem The Return to the Old House:
`As I walk to the door, uninvited,
it opens kindly with blooming flowers spreading joy.
Who are you? Where were you?
Why make us wait so long for your pleasure at dinner?
In this village, safety is larger than the fears of time,
and the warmth of love is limitless.`
Homes transcend being mere shelters; they are cultural identities. The land and its people form the foundation of this identity, which is tied to religion, language, and social values. A place’s identity is intertwined with its inhabitants. Forced changes to a place often fracture its people, unsettling their relationships, peace, comfort, love, and sense of safety. This explains the overwhelming nostalgia for “small homelands” – the homes.
Homes have a spirit that dwells within people, roaming their memories, becoming part of their essence, history, and identity. Those mudbrick walls, cracked by time, stand as witnesses to the lives of those displaced by war. They remain a testimony to human simplicity and spontaneity, shaping the natural features of the people who once lived there. These homes, humble as they are, become imprints of the displaced individuals lives, evoking longing as they traverse unfamiliar lands.
This longing treads barefoot on the embers of nostalgia, swallowing the bitterness of absence. Today, every displaced heart echoes Dunqul’s defiant spirit:
`It was my heart,
woven by wounds,
cursed by fractures.
Now it lies on the city’s remains,
a flower of decay,
calm after proclaiming No to the ark,
and loving the homeland.`
