Living in exile can feel like an unreal existence, where simple things – like writing – can seem out of reach.
When my eyes fluttered open, I felt like my sensory system was unable to make contact with my mind; as a result, I wasn’t able to sense my legs, hands, or arms. As if my body parts weren’t mine, as if they were borrowed, or made up of wood, or who knows, maybe even stones. I wonder how Pinocchio must have felt when he came to life for the first time. Since his legs, his arms, and his hands weren’t those of an actual human, the connection between his body and mind was poor. He was just a wooden boy. Like him, I feel I have been altered into a wooden woman by some wizards.
How does it feel to be torn between giving up and fighting? It feels as if your skin is being peeled off your body; however, your eyes are still defiantly resisting. Just think of a raven resisting all the curses and maledictions they get from humans, whether in poems, novels, or real life. Despite all this, they still fly in the sky. I had become a raven in exile – how ironic!
For months, I used to pressure myself to at least hold a pen and give soul to the “things my heart used to know, and things it yearns to remember.” However, no words came out of the delicate body of the pen. Not even while watching the sunset next to Åkra Beach, which I visited as a refugee living in Norway.
For me, not being able to write is torture. As a child, I remember my parents used to tell me stories on long car rides: stories of princesses, a cunning fox, a stork and a fox, a bear and his honey, Morad and Hoshang. But when they got tired, they said they had dropped all the stories they knew into the river. I always imagined a bunch of envelopes dropping from the windows of the car into the Mahipar and Surobi dams that we drove past. Living in exile, I had the same feeling: that all my words were gathering inside envelopes and dropping down into rivers and oceans, where they cannot be found.
Until one afternoon, when nature was dressed in orange and rain was washing all the dust from the trees, I heard of a magical shop that had been opened in the town where I now live. Actually, it had existed for years, but I had just heard about it. I heard that the shop was for lost souls, for those who struggle to find themselves, for those who have spent years hating themselves and want to disappear, those whom fear has devoured. Yet the slightest hint of hope remains in their eyes. So, I decided to visit. With a heart full of fear and slight excitement, I set out the next day.
The shop had a small wooden door with purple glass from the outside, and two golden lights on both sides of the entrance door. The man at the counter had a sweet and angelic smile, the kind that makes you smile back. He introduced himself as the manager of the shop. He guided me towards the hallway, which was decorated with purple flowers, purple curtains, and candles all around the place. A soft scent wafted through the air, and I heard the faint calming sound of a piano. We reached a door, then he gestured for me to enter. At first, I was hesitant because he didn’t say a word and didn’t even ask me why I was there. But seeing his smile, I assumed he probably knew why I was there.
As I entered the room, my gaze fell on the paintings all around, then on a young man, probably in his late twenties, with dark hair and sparkling eyes. He raised his head from the canvas. “Is it true?” I asked. “Does this shop help lost souls find their way?” He smiled and snapped his fingers, and suddenly I found myself among millions of stars and planets in the Milky Way. My eyes widened. “Do you see the darkness mixed with the light here? Do you see all these strange objects all around these stars?” he asked. I narrowed my eyes slightly, and yes, now I could see celestial objects, stones, and asteroids. “Don’t they complement each other?” he asked then. I saw the brightest stars surrounded by irregularly shaped objects, some black and some grey. “A falling nebula is a rising star,” he said. “It’s not about how it appears; it’s about how you see it. And it becomes true the moment you start believing it,” he added. With another snap of his fingers, we were back in the room. He held out his hand, and I saw a hair clip in the shape of the Milky Way in his palm. He placed the hair clip in my hair and guided me towards another room. Meanwhile, I kept repeating what he told me like a mental note: “It’s not about how it might seem; it’s about how you see it, and it becomes true the moment you start believing it.”
In a split second, I found myself in front of a huge, beautiful library. The librarian was a tall and handsome man. At first, he didn’t notice me entering. He was engrossed in a book, so I cleared my throat, then he looked at me. “Oh, you came!” he said. “You knew I was coming?” I asked. With a warm smile, he nodded. “We keep a record of lost souls, and it gets updated each month. Some come here and pay us a visit; however, some remain lost.” “If you keep a record, then why don’t you go to them?” I asked. “Change must begin within oneself,” he replied. “This might not be easy. You can back down now, but if you choose to continue, you have to go on. Are you ready for the rest of your journey?” I hesitated and then agreed. “I suppose I am ready to explore whatever is before me,” I said. He gave me a small notebook and guided me to another room.
Here, a man was playing the piano so beautifully that I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt him. This was where I had heard the faint sounds from, I realized. I tried to remain motionless and not make any sound to disturb him, but somehow he sensed my presence, stopped playing, and turned his gaze to where I was standing. I found myself staring into his eyes. The more I looked, the calmer I felt. He silently gestured towards the piano. “My knowledge of the piano is limited to only listening,” I said. I sat on the chair hesitantly, then he stepped closer and guided my fingers against the piano keys, and all of a sudden, I was able to play the tune I had always dreamed of playing. As I kept playing, I started seeing myself in the music rack. I seemed angry, lonely, and wounded. Tears started rolling down my cheeks when I saw myself like that. The self that was inside the music rack started talking. “It’s useless,” she said. “You are doing all of this for nothing. You will get nothing except wasted time.” These were the exact ideas I had carried around since I came here. “You have tried everything, but nothing works. You know this. Why don’t you just stop trying? Why don’t we just leave the world?” the other me went on. I started to feel heat radiating from my body, my fingers slowly stopped playing, I felt my whole body burning, scars started appearing all over my body, and I could see my hands trembling. Then I felt the man gently guiding my fingers. “Keep playing,” he said. I let his fingers guide mine, then my eyes turned to the hair clip, and I remembered: “It’s not about how it might seem; it’s about how you see it, and it becomes true the moment you start believing it.” I repeated this, as well as the librarian’s words: “Change shall begin within oneself.” I kept repeating what they told me while playing the piano. With each moment, I noticed the other me was getting quieter until she started sobbing, and her scars started leaving her body, and she started coming closer by each moment until I felt she merged with me, and we became one. As she merged with me, she left behind an almond-shaped gem. The pianist extended his hand to give me the gem. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s your amygdala,” he replied with his soothing voice. “Now you know where to go.” He opened the door for me, gesturing for me to leave.
How does it feel to be torn between giving up and fighting? It feels as if your skin is being peeled off your body; however, your eyes are still defiantly resisting. Just think of a raven resisting all the curses and maledictions they get from humans, whether in poems, novels, or real life. Despite all this, they still fly in the sky.
I left and started walking. How could I possibly know where I should go in this unfamiliar place? I was debating with myself when I found myself in front of an enormous watch. “It took a long time for you to come; I was about to close,” said the man standing in the centre of the watch. “Well—” but before I could finish, he added, “I am glad you are here anyway.” He smiled and winked, and his friendly nature eased my mind. “Since you have reached here, I assume you passed the earliest stages,” he said. “The magician, the librarian, then the alchemist,” he added, seeing my look of surprise. So that’s what they were. “And you might be the…?” I asked. “Don’t worry, soon you will know who I am. And what about the fairy? Did you meet him?” he said. “The fairy?” I asked. “Yes, the fairy, the blonde guy at the entrance. Let me tell you a secret about him—his pinkie finger is very tiny and cute,” he said while giving a big smile. I let out a chuckle at what he said. “Well, let’s not waste time and travel back in time.” As he moved his hand in the air, a big screen appeared on which I saw my parents in an old house, weaving rosaries. My mother was heavily pregnant, but she was working hard. I watched her doing strenuous chores, getting tired yet still standing beautiful and strong, strong like a woman—the woman I wish I were. I saw her giving up on her dreams for the sake of family. We used to live with my grandfather and uncles in a traditional family, where you are expected to abandon your dreams and respect the decisions of elders because they are more experienced. In this kind of a family setup, you basically don’t have a say about your own life. Yet, watching my mother, I saw the flicker of hope shimmering in her eyes. I saw her turning her feelings into words and pouring them onto pieces of paper. I saw her adjusting, sacrificing, enduring, and adapting to new situations. Then I saw the free-spirited girl turn into a gloomy woman. I saw my father working as a construction worker and later as a seller, working hard so that he could provide for the family. I saw how he gave up on his dream of becoming a doctor and joining the military because his family wanted him to. I saw how my country fell under the inhuman regime of the Taliban, which forced millions to seek refuge in neighboring countries. I saw him not being able to spend time with his wife and daughter since he needed to work harder. I saw a respected military officer turning into a refugee. Then, I saw how my parents named me “Neelufer,” meaning “lotus flower,” the flower that grows even where growth seems impossible. —the flower that is the symbol of endurance and rebellion. I saw how life gradually started getting better once we got back home to Afghanistan after 2001. Living with parents and younger siblings together was such a blessing. I saw my dreams coming true, and my parents getting what they wished for: my mother working as a lecturer, and my father as a colonel in the military. I saw myself getting the job I wanted, working for PEN, joining an initiative to stand against extremism with the power of our words. I saw my pride and happiness at being among such honorable and committed people. As I watched these memories, I felt my cheeks getting wet and warmth filling my body. The man offered me a handkerchief. Wiping my tears, I asked, “So, you are the Memory Keeper?” “Yes, I am responsible for preserving memories and reminding humans in need of them.” Then he snapped his finger, and a blue flower appeared from nowhere. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s Myosotis, the memory flower,” he replied as he gave me the flower. “Let the flower guide you when you need guidance,” he added. Before I could say anything else, he and his enormous clock vanished.
I stood there not knowing where to go when I heard a voice. “Did the boys make you cry?” he asked while walking closer. He offered a warm side hug—one I desperately needed right now. I placed my head on his shoulder and cried out loud. “Everything is fine, everything will be fine, it is going to be fine, everything will be OK,” he repeated while gently stroking my hair, and I felt I let go of all the emotions I had ignored for years and years. “Let’s make you some tea. You have come a long way,” he suggested. Then we walked towards another room. It was such a pretty room, plants and flowers everywhere, and the atmosphere was very soothing. The slight breeze coming through the window stroked my face, birds were singing, and he was humming a very familiar and soothing melody. It all felt like magic. He made me a cup of hot tea with golden sprinkles. “Drink this; it will heal your scars,” he said. I took the cup, and with the first sip I felt as if something had awakened in me—or better, something had strengthened in me. “What is in this?” I asked. “Hope,” he said. A simple answer—hope. It was all I needed. Hope! I repeated while feeling my eyes getting teary once again. “Keep your daydreaming alive,” he said while offering me a candle. His kind persona and friendly demeanor made me wish to linger, but I had to continue my journey.
I walked through the hallway to find a large door, I knocked slightly, but not getting an answer, I slowly stepped inside the room. It was decorated with different types and designs of mirrors. I was able to see my reflection all around me, which was a bit confusing, as if I was inside a puzzle. As I kept examining the room, I heard a voice. “Not all guests are brave enough to reach this level. I assume you have overcome a huge part of your struggle,” he said while looking at his face in the mirror. He was tall and a very handsome man with broad shoulders. “I suppose,” I said. “You suppose? You suppose what?” he asked. “I suppose I have overcome an enormous part of my struggle, as you said,” I replied. Then he turned around, started walking towards me, and stopped right in front of me. “Look around, what do you see?” he asked. “Mirrors,” I replied. “What else?” he asked. “Flowers,” I replied. “What else?” “Candles, lights, I see curtains, and you,” I answered. “Is that all you can see?” he asked. “I think so —wait, I see the door as well,” I replied. He smiled bitterly, and without saying another word, he extended his hand elegantly towards the mirror that was located right before us. My eyes followed the elegant movement of his hand, then all of a sudden, I saw myself in the mirror, crying. I took a step closer to the mirror, and it was me in despair. It felt like I was watching the video of my life—how I lived it, what I had gone through, and how I reacted. I noticed that almost in every situation, I blamed myself; I noticed I blamed myself for ruining my life. It was strange that I was able to see a small child running around me as well inside the mirror, but as much as I kept blaming myself and throwing hateful comments at me, the child got quieter and quieter until she sat in the corner hugging her knees and resting her head over them. Then I could see all the love and care I received from my parents, my siblings, my friends, and the people close to me. Yet, I kept judging myself as harshly as I could. “Did I neglect myself? Did I take myself for granted? Did I take all the love and care I received from people very close to me for granted? Was I too harsh on myself? Why did I think I was never enough? Why did I never love myself?” I ran my finger gently against the mirror, stroking my reflection. “Let me ask you again, what do you see now?” he said. “Me. I see me,” I replied. “It took you a long time to finally realize that,” he said while smiling warmly. Then he gave me a mirror and continued, “You are the one you should love.” The realization hit hard. Neglecting others feels bad, but neglecting yourself is even worse. “Allow me to give you company,” he said while offering his hand. I gently placed my hand over his, and we walked out of the room. As we kept walking, we arrived at where I started. Then he released my hand and told me that his job was done here, and he left.
Once again, I was standing across from the first man, who had let me into the shop.
“I hope you get what you were looking for,” he said. “Yes, indeed,” I replied. “I feel like I am reborn, and I can shape this birth with my own will.” He smiled — again, the smile that makes you smile back at him. Then he gave me a necklace. “This is a promise necklace. You’ve got to promise you won’t throw yourself away, no matter how difficult it gets—a pinkie promise,” he said. “You must be tired. Let’s get you some rest,” he added. He guided me towards the hallway, and I could hear the piano, but this time I knew who was playing it. Then he stopped in front of a door, opened it, and gestured for me to enter. As I wanted to enter, I noticed his hand on the doorknob; his pinkie finger was actually tiny and very cute. I remembered what the Memory Keeper told me about it and chuckled unintentionally. He narrowed his eyes and mumbled something. As I entered, I heard him yelling, “Memory Keeper! You are done for real this time!” I let out a chuckle and made my way into the room. It was cozy and warm with the smell of jasmine. My gaze lingered around the room, and stopped on a comfortable looking bed. I jumped on it and let the mattress hug my entire body. It didn’t take long for my lashes to flutter closed, and I let myself fall into the embrace of a comforting sleep.
Once I woke up, I found myself in my bed. It didn’t take me long to realise that I could sense my legs, my arms, and my hands. Maybe Pinocchio had become real this time.
Article image credit: Little Theatre “Duško Radović”, Belgrade; “Pinocchio”, 2012; Photo by Željko Sinobad, CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
