Turin, Italy
Tahere Mohamadi, 21
Writer
What do you see, when you look out of your window?
I can see the tip of the tree branches swallowed in the fog. White clouds running down the surrounding hills of our home. Some houses have sharp edges, that are now wrapped into the gray cloth of the clouds.
What did you eat for breakfast?
Warm milk, berry jam and biscuits. It is hard to get bread in the refugee shelter here.
What has become your most important object?
My tools for writing. That is my phone, in which I take notes. And a green notebook, I got in Bosnia and Herzegowina.
***
What follows next, is the short story of There Mohamadi. The writer herself translated it from Dari to English. It was written on Tahere’s perilous journey from Iran to Europe.
Since her phone was many times taken or destroyed by border guards or lost on the way, she saved most of her writing in a cloud, so that she could find it back, once she had access to the internet again.
One button less
by Tahere Mohamadi
We were two families around candlelight. The wax did not seem to melt. Maybe, I did not see it shrink in the dark. The children, were in front of the candle. They showed each other how to hold their finger on it, without getting burned. One of them was Sajjad. He had round eyes. His eyebrows were covered underneath a hat. He was raising his nose. Then he continued to chew his lips - as usual. His mother pinched him in the back. I saw this when I got up to arrange the fire wood again. I laughed softly at Sajjad.
“What's up baby? Pull up your pants,” the mother said.
- “Okay Mom,” Sajjad replied.
Then without any further words, he reached out to the candle flame with the palm of his hand. Sajjad did not blink, as if he wanted to say something to the candle. Suddenly the mother stood up and closed the door behind us. As if we were not in the room. Because of her smiling face, we could not be angry at her. After a moment, the wind blew the door open again. Bahar was sitting next to it. She looked carefully into the flames. Perhaps to keep warm. Beside her was Sara.
She held her fourth finger on the candle. But, she soon realized that her skin was not safe that way. So she gave Sajjad another chance - to learn how he does it. Without fear. Without shaking. Without crying. I was also looking at Sajjad's hand. I wished in my heart that the magic of his little fingers could do something to warm up the room. Maybe, if he talked to the candle. And after a long time. It worked! I shook my shoulder to warm up. I wanted to get my jacket to go out. It was not here. Not in the room. Not in my Mom's bag. I went without any orientation to the window. Its wooden frame was smoky. Its blackness was not less than Sajjad's eyes. I saw the jacket outside! The mother of Sajjad wore it. She had fastened all six buttons on from chest to waist and did not move in the rebellious cold.
It was her habit to gather the small sticks during the day. I was angry and wanted to get to her as soon as possible. Reckless woman. When I went out, the cold invited me. It burned from the soles of my feet, to the holes of my ears. The cold was the monster, both, children and adults were afraid of. While talking to her, I I found a few pieces of wood. I took it and put it on the fire. She stood right in front of me, with that yellow jacket.
“Well done girl,” she said.
”Welcome,” I replied.
”Only collect dry wood. Only dry wood is useful.”
“Oh, well...,” I gasped.
She had a gold ring on her middle finger. But it still did not cover the brown spots on her skin. I had never seen such hands. Usually her hands were strong enough to hold the pot next to her until it boiled. Until bubbles appeared on the surface. Also, when she hit a chicken with a fork, she broke the flesh from the bone in just one hit. Putting a piece into Sajjad's mouth. Although her body was warm, her blue veins showed underneath her ring. Flowing cold.
The woods were burning in the fire - I closed my eyes. It was so hot that I did not want to open them anymore. Every time I chopped them up. The yellow of the jacket made me see further.
She started to talk, opposite of the fire.
“It was at this time last year that Sajjad's father and I were walking in the yard,” she said. Without waiting for me to say something response, she continued: ”It was winter and the wind was blowing strong in the branches of our trees.” I asked her, what kind of trees, they had in then garden.
“Pomegranate,” she said. “We shared the last ones with our friends just before we wanted to leave Iran to find a peace of mind in life.”
I realized that the story that started was long. But my impatience was engulfed in the heat of the fire.
She was talking about Sajjad’s father. From his hair color, the reason for his frown, his dry but firm body, the number of his prayers.
“He did not sleep well in those last days. He was looking for the future with two eyes bigger than the days”, she said. Sajjad came out of the house and sat next to us. He picked some potatoes and started to grill them over the fire, chewing on his lips. In one of the previous winters, he had seen things, that he did not want to see. But he could not close his eyes in front of it.
I did not say anything. She knew what to do to make me like the story. I realized this when my jacket seemed to fit her very well. She countinued.
“That day when we both ran, we were holding hands,” his mother said. “I did not understand where I was going, but I knew I had to leave.” So they ran together. Not turning around. Trying to find a familiar person ahead. A safe land. Places that would let them arrive. She wanted to get away from the pain, the loss of her husband brought to her. And find brighter days for Sajjad.
When she got to this point of the story, the corners of her eye could have gotten wet, but they didn't.
I got up to put the water to boil. Everything seemed frozen around me. It was not safe from the cold. I was looking for a pot. Surprised and curious, Sajjad's mother said:
“It is not here.”
- “So where is it?” I asked.
”Maybe when I was going to Mahgol's house to borrow some rice yesterday, I left it there.”
The black sticks were now golden. The heat had reached under my nose. I realized that the jacket, alone did not warm me. Something else was. There was something pleasant between us. The coals were shining in peace.
She was going to get the pot from Mahgol. Suddenly she realized, that she was wearing my jacket. She got up and stood there, laughing. The lines on her face gave her posture a different feel, shaking the fire ashes off her skirt. Then a button fell into the coals. One button less, I thought.
Note: Tahere & Franziska met in February this year in an abandoned house on the border of Bosnia and Herzegovina and Croatia - the EU’s longest external border. The systemic violence and pushbacks of asylum seekers to Bosnia had intensified during the time Tahere stayed with her family in semi-homeless conditions at the borderland. While still trying every day to cross the dangerous border, the Danish Refugee Council (DRC) recorded nearly 18,000 migrants pushed back by Croatia since the start of the pandemic.
The writer and the journalist have stayed in contact along the journey to Croatia, Italy and finally Germany, where Tahere is currently in Quarantine with her family.
Tahere has made the journey from Iran to Germany mostly by foot. It took her over two years.
