It-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named: Part II
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald
Last year, due to an unfortunate turn of events, I once more returned to It-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named and stayed there for longer than I had the first run.
Chapter One: Second Time’s a Charm (not really)
Day 1
If the two packets of sugar dad bought finish and we’re still here, we may as well be staying here forever (god forbid).
1:12 AM: a welcoming power outage.
Day 10
December 31, 2023 10:11 PM
I’m sad to say that I’m spending this new year’s eve under a mosquito net. In Hassan Aloop1. And I’ll most probably be sleeping before the clock strikes midnight, which I don’t ever remember doing, at least not since 2009/2010. And the thing is, I’m not even sure if, by this time next year, I won’t sleeping under a mosquito net. I’ve stopped predicting the future—it’s far too burdensome a task.
….
Last year, Reem and I went upstairs to the rooftop and watched the fireworks. I was happy—elated, even—and that’s not a nostalgic exaggeration. I didn’t think to imagine where I’d be next year because I didn’t need to. I didn’t need to look that far ahead into the future; I had everything.
Day 11 8:06 AM
عمو أحمد: يا جماعة الليلة أول يوم في السنة كيف يقطعوها؟
ريم: عمو أحمد إنت قايل نفسك في الجنة؟
Uncle Ahmed: How is there a power outage on the very first day of the year?
Reem: Uncle Ahmed, do you think you’re in heaven?
Day 13 6:37 PM
A power outage. Coinciding with an attempted murder avenging an individual’s death from another state. Coincidence? I think not. The victim was originally sentenced to death before the war for murder. When the conflict began, all prisoners were set free. Instead of escaping to a place where he’d be safe from his rivals, he decided to come back home where his family threw ceremonies welcoming him back and decided it was a good idea to write a post on Facebook reassuring everyone of his well-being. He was shot 2 bullets in the head and suffered two other injuries with a knife and an axe. He’s in a coma.
Day 24
Just finished reading a book called A River in Darkness which coincidentally turned out to be an insightful choice because reading about what happens in North Korea makes the calamity that is Hassan Aloop easier to bear. This book actually left me with an unexpected sense of gratitude for being here??
Day 29
I’ve refined my ability to calculate the time the hose needs to fill up the barrels depending on water flow. And on the bright side, I’m also getting free exposure therapy to phylum Arthropoda.
Day 41
ماما: اللهم اجعل أيامنا في حسن علوب كلها شتاء
ريم: اللهم اجعل أيامنا الفي حسن علوب ما في حسن علوب*
Mama: May Allah make all our days in Hassan Aloop cold and chilly.
Reem: May Allah make all our days in Hassan Aloop NOT in Hassan Aloop.*
Day 49
The two packets of sugar are over. Could this be the start of forever?
Day 55
Woke up today, the networks provided by all three telecommunications companies have gone out of service. Which means no calls, no texts, no internet connection even two kilometers ahead. How convenient.
Day 60 6:57 PM
A power outage. Rayan attempting to pass time by explaining global warning to Bnboony, her 4-year-old daughter.
بنبوني: ماما سي او تو د شنو؟
Bnboony: Mom, what’s CO2?
Day 66 7:00 AM
We bid farewell to my two older sisters who are leaving the country. Contrary to expectations, I’m inundated with feelings of immense exhilaration that at least a part of us will have made it out of this place.
Day 71
Escapism has become my new favorite hobby. I shut my eyes and imagine I’m back home. Home—a word too foreign, a place too far away, a feeling too long forgotten. Picture myself in my room, at my favorite time of the day: dawn, when the battle is fiercest between dark and light but latter seeks to prevail. The quietness, the promise of a day about to begin. Snap out of it. Repeat.
Day 78 9:00 PM
I’m off to the kitchen with Mom, who plays a key role in today’s episode of her two daughters having dinner. She protects against the neighbor’s angry dog, who guards his house at the expense of not even allowing the neighbors into areas of their own houses that are near his. Can’t tell if it’s pure loyalty or advanced rabies, but either way, not taking a risk.
Day 82
I’ve revisited my gallery a thousand times today alone. I could tell you the date and year of any randomly chosen picture. My mind longs to remain fixed in that phase of life where I was just starting to see a glimpse of happiness. When everything was familiar—though that isn’t to over-romanticize it. Grapple with the creeping nostalgia for a time when it was still valid to dream, when the future seemed so clear, its timeline filled with awaited promises. Deny the absence of even those who made you feel home, irrespective of your whereabouts. How could life have changed so abruptly? And how is it that whenever you feel you’ve come closer to becoming adjusted, it just feels like you’re deceiving yourself?
Day 85 2:44 PM
Loud cheers around the village. The networks are back. I guess we’re back to making 2 kilometer trips again.
Day 89
As of today, I’ve been journaling for 5 months straight—a habit that has decently helped in maintaining my sanity. Every morning, I’d wake up and count my blessings, and every night, I’d write the happiest moment of the day. Oh, how desperately I tried to catch a glimpse of light at the far end of the tunnel, cautiously hoping it wouldn’t be the headlights of a train approaching.
I’m also keeping a dream tracker nowadays, but it serves no purpose other than deepening my confusion about the workings of my mind.
Day 98 9:43 PM
If you listen close enough, there’s always a cow mooing in the background.
Day 106
The guy in a coma died. News of his rivals celebrating his death in another state.
Day 107
New types of ملاحات(Sudanese stews) unlocked:
ملاح لبن - milk stew
ملاح ويكاب اللبن - milk & dried okra stew
ملاح فول - beans stew
ملاح ام شحيفة - Um Shaheefa stew (no English translation for this one but the key ingredients are onions, oil, water, salt and dried okra powder.)
Day 109
The loyal dog with advanced rabies was poisoned today, whimpering softly as he quivered until his soul left his body.
The bad news is, they say a dog is poisoned before every theft crime.
Day 111
As our imminent departure approaches, I am frantic, alarmed—overcome by a feeling that something could potentially go wrong.
Day 115
6:03 AM
I face the Qibla and beseech God to make this the last day I ever lay eyes upon this place.
8:32 AM
The car we depart in is 4/5 humans, 1/5 goats. Apparently, these creatures are flexible and a great number can be stuffed under the back seats seamlessly.
I usually despise road trips, but this one was memorable. I never got tired of gazing out the window. We crossed seasonal rivers, arid planes but mostly sandy expanses interspersed by stony mountains, with the road abruptly shifting from tarmac to gravel, to dirt, to sand, to tarmac again. We ate beans for four days straight, but that was trivial, overshadowed by the surrealism of going back home. At sunset, the bus would come to a halt at a cafeteria surrounded by barren, desolate land. We’d rent bare beds to sleep on without the luxury of mattresses. And then at 6 AM the next morning, the bus would set out yet again. I witnessed my first ever sunrise on the road, and I have to say, I’m far more enchanted by sunsets.
Country roads, take me hoooooooome, stony deserts, Omdurman.
Chapter Two: Omdur
We take a turn into Shaikan Street, and all of a sudden, my eyes are gushing a river. There should be a word that captures the feeling of returning home after seven months of Hassan Aloop and eleven months of absence. At our front door, I would say that I was ecstatic or euphoric, but I was outside the confines of where feelings are named.
At long last, everything I had ever dreamed of was within my reach. My never-before-worn clothes, shoes and bags became my most cherished possessions. I’d mist a light spray of each of my perfumes and take a trip down memory lane. My books, teddy bears, that silver necklace my best friend got me for my 12th birthday, and the necklace my first love gifted me in third grade. And privacy? I was reintroduced to states of being long abandoned. I’d go upstairs to the rooftop and drink tea at dawn, hit by the cool morning breeze as I cloud gazed. And when the door knocked, I’d sneak a peak through the small window of my room that offers a clear view of the front door—a traditional I’ve reserved since childhood.
I treasured looking at things with renewed eyes—things to which I had once been invariably accustomed. Devouring the mundanity of it all—but mundane has never been this wondrous.
Silence? Without the sound of a cow mowing in the background? Living without the constant fear of a power outage and a consequent water shortage?
سبحانك ما عبدناك حق عبادتك.
Glory is to You, we have not worshiped You as You deserve to be worshiped.
Of course, the war was still ongoing, but that was a secondary matter. Indeed explosive projectiles were being dropped two neighborhoods away, but I was making cinnamon rolls and brownies from the comfort of my kitchen, and I didn’t have to fill up barrels of water every morning for later use. Sure death lurked nearby, but if my clothes were machine washed, then BE. MY. GUEST. Every time we’d hear a loud thud, we’d look outside, only to be comforted by the kids playing soccer or random people walking about. No matter how loud that thud is, everyone around seemed indifferent. When Mahmood AboAlhool said, “Karari speaks of men like ferocious lions,” he wasn’t joking.
Epilogue
Omdurman isn’t for the faint-hearted. Two months later, we left home, yet again uprooted despite our wishes. The house I live in now marks the eighth place I’ve lived in since 2024 and the tenth since the start of the war. While none of them could rival our house in Omdurman, I’ve opted to call this one a second home.
Take care,
Shima
It-which-has-finally-been-named: Hassan Aloop.
I felt every word. This is an exceptional piece of art.