It’s summer in the global south (which is winter in the global north), and for the month of January Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Hilal Chouman is a novelist from Lebanon. He was born in Beirut in 1982. To date, he has published five novels in Arabic: "What Sleep Narrated" (Dar Malamih - 2008), 'Napoletana' (Dar Al-Adab - 2010), 'Limbo Beirut' (Dar Al Tanweer - 2012), 'Once Upon A Time, Tomorrow' (Dar Al Saqi - 2016) and 'Sadness in My Heart' (Khan Al Janoub - 2022). His novel 'Limbo Beirut' (2012) was translated into English and was shortlisted for the Saif Ghobash-Banipal Literary Translation Award and the PEN longlist. He publishes critical essays and literary texts at irregular intervals in Lebanese and Arabic websites and newspapers. He currently lives in Toronto, Canada.

1

Did we have to fall off a cliff to get here? And would we really understand if we dug deeper into the past?
These questions run through my mind as I scroll through the news bulletins on my phone.
I ask questions without finding answers. I put my phone down, put my headphones back in their case and dive into the books I've stacked on the table in front of me. I look up to watch the snowflakes falling outside the window. When I entered the library half an hour ago, the sky was clear and sunny. I put on my coat, leave my things in the library and head outside. I admire the snow up close, sheltering under the roof of the entrance for a few minutes. Drawn by the intensity of the snowfall, I zip up my coat, pull the hood over my head, and venture out into the courtyard.
I stand in the falling snow for a few minutes. I contemplate its whiteness as it settles on my thick coat, and think to myself that sometimes, contrary to what we believe, things can be simple.

***
A

As we crossed the road, we left the ruins behind, as if we were pushing them away or walking away from them. But we couldn't escape them. The devastation continued to accompany us as we walked, refusing to disappear, taking on forms that deepened the tragedy even further. Burnt-out cars, abandoned on the roadside already strewn with debris: stones hurled from the nearby hills, earth and mud from deep below the asphalt. We walk cautiously, noticing smoke rising nearby. One building, two buildings, whole neighbourhoods destroyed by planes, rockets and drones. Trees whose greenery has disappeared under the ashes of ruined buildings, and electricity poles leaning off their axis.
We press on, covering our noses against a strange smell that permeates the place. We keep going, not knowing whether it's the smell of burnt things, the smell of death lurking in the heart of the neighbourhoods, or the smell of our own departure. We move on, not knowing if we'll ever come back. We quicken our pace, avoiding looking back, lest grief overwhelm us and hamper our escape.

***
2

I leave the library. I find a secluded spot near the lift, put my headphones back on and call my mother. I let her tell me about my sisters, my aunts, my uncles... and then, as with every call, the moment comes: "And you? How are you, son?"
I don't know what to say to her, other than a simple "I'm fine." But, as usual, my mother insists: "Come on, tell me what's going on with you."
I tell her that I'm reading a novel about a family whose members repeat the same sentences over and over again, until those sentences end up taking on new meanings, departing from their original meaning to go off in totally different directions. And that in the end, they die of depression... then I correct myself: "No, they die of grief."
"God forbid," she replies. Realising that this subject will only plunge us into anxious worry and discussion, I decide not to go on about the novel and tell her about my dreams instead. I recount the dream I had about a walk.

***
B

The little girl with us on the walk tells me that she named her cat Ginger because of its orange colour. She tells me about the intelligence, craziness and stamina of orange cats. The cat, cuddled in her arms, has its mouth open and is breathing rapidly and laboriously. I suspect it may be dehydrated, so I ask the little girl when the cat last drank. She replies that she has no watch and doesn't know what day it is. I take a flask out of my backpack, pour some water into the lid, put it on the ground and ask the little girl to let the cat drink. But she won't let go, holding on tightly. The cat then drinks greedily.

***
3

I return to my table in the library, thinking about what my mother told me: "Dreams are a symptom of our sense of loss. They take us back to what happened, play around with what didn't happen, or remind us of what we'd like to see happen or avoid."
I open the first book. On the first page is someone's signature, followed by the name of the city: "Beirut 1987".
I open the second book and, as with the first, another signature, this time accompanied by: "Damascus 1979".
Third book: "Cairo 1994".
Fourth book: nothing.
Fifth book: nothing.
Sixth book: "Jerusalem 2003".
I go to the counter with the four inscribed books and ask the employee where they came from. She replies curtly that she doesn't know. Another employee steps forward and asks her colleague to return some books to the second floor. She complies and goes off, and the new employee asks me if I need any help. I repeat my question.
She examines the archive numbers on the spines of the books, then concentrates on the computer in front of her. She looks up and informs me that two of the books were donated by an Arab organisation in the city, while the others were given to the library by two people whose names and contact details she cannot reveal, for reasons of confidentiality.

***
C

A boy with a cage containing a bird comes over and watches us. I ask him if his bird needs a drink. He nods. In the cage, one bird is perched on a bar, while another lies dead at the bottom. I don't ask, but the boy notices me staring at the dead bird and says firmly: "He's been asleep since yesterday." I nod silently and help him remove the water bottle attached to the cage, to refill it.
An old woman passes us in a wheelchair pushed by her son. He leaves her for a moment and rushes over to help his wife. As I stare at the old lady, she seems not to notice me, continuing to pray and mutter inaudible words. Although I can't hear her from where I am, I believe, at this very moment, that our gathering is protected by her prayers. I sit on the floor, watching the crowd go by, and feel an unusual slight pang in my heart, a feeling I'll remember for the rest of my life.

***
4

I'm sitting on the hospital bed. The doctor runs the stethoscope over my back, asks me to breathe in and out a few times, then returns to his desk. He invites me to get off the bed, announcing the end of the routine examination.
He informs me that everything is normal and that the tests have revealed nothing out of the ordinary.
"What about the grief, Doctor?" I ask.
"Just anxiety. Have you thought about yoga or breathing exercises? Do you have any friends? Have you tried psychotherapy?" The doctor talks for several minutes, but I don't listen. I concentrate on my heartbeat, and for a moment it seems so loud that it drowns out all the sounds around me, including the doctor's voice.
I think back to my dream about the walk, putting a hand over my heart to protect it from that persistent pain I felt as soon as I woke up. I think of the little girl who came up to me and asked, "What happens when we die, sir? And when do we die? My friend says we die when our heart breaks. Can't we always mend it before it breaks?"
I tell myself that broken hearts are hard to mend. It's not wounds that keep them from functioning, but a kind of memory that refuses to go away - a constant reminder of what happened, of what should have happened, but never did. As my heart beats faster and faster, I realise that all the cracks in the world are converging on it, and it's their arrival that's causing this sudden, growing pain.
"Are you okay?" The doctor rushes towards me from behind his desk.

***

Epilogue

I haven't spoken for over ten years.
A few months after entering prison, I realised that speaking could rouse suspicion. If I spoke under torture, they demanded more confessions and accused me of lying. If I spoke to someone in the communal cell, I risked my words reaching one of their informants.
I stopped talking under torture, then in the cells, after they told me they heard me humming in my cell late at night. I don't know how it happened. Was it gradual? Or was there a specific moment when I decided to keep quiet? My memories are hazy. All I remember is that my mind and body strangely sustained me, and that the repeated blows stopped squeezing words out of me. I settled for grunts and unintelligible sounds, wondering if the pain increased or decreased when expressed.
I was left with only my mind, and the walls on which I wrote with fragments of stone, chipped from a slab of broken wall. I wrote so as not to lose my mind, so as not to forget the words, hoping that one day my writing would give me back my voice.
On the back wall, I wrote the story of people walking in the ruins. I was the narrator, walking among them, observing them, helping one, supporting another. Among us were women, men, old people, children, animals. Old women muttered:

"Why don't they travel the earth so that their hearts might understand, their ears might hear? For it is not the eyes that are blinded, but the hearts in their chests."
I was careful not to write on the narrow parts of the wall around the metal door of my cell, to avoid making any noise that might result in another torture session.
On the right-hand wall, I counted the days, crossed them out, and wrote poems I had memorised so I wouldn't forget them. Among them was this poem by Riyad al-Saleh al-Hussein:

I have a heart broken like a quince.
Every man holds a piece of it.
Gather the men and tell them:
We are not thieves.
We work eight hours a day.
We have the right to eat quinces.
Gather all the men and you will gather my heart.
My broken heart is like a quince.

On the wall to the left, I wrote a story which grew from the one on the back wall: the story of a man, in a faraway place, who dreams of people walking through the ruins, convinced that he is only dreaming.
I close my eyes, escaping the sunlight, and think of the recent past.

I remember them opening my cell door. I don't remember what they said, but I remember that I said nothing in reply. I just stood, motionless, as they urged me to get out. When they grew tired of my silence and left, I took a step forward, but stopped just short of the threshold, paralysed by the fear of crossing it.
I watched the figures hurrying past my cell, trying to catch snatches of sentences amid the chaos. I only dared step out when I saw a former cellmate, from my early years in detention, running past. He turned around when he saw me and stopped, raising a victory salute with a smile.
I didn't understand: who had we won against this time? And why were we being released if we'd won?

For the first time in months, I left my cell. I left behind the poems and stories I'd been rewriting for years, tirelessly searching for endless possibilities. I melted into the crowd, moving along with them as we followed the directions of people stationed in the corridors. Dawn was breaking. I sat on the ground, bewildered, not knowing what to do, until a man approached and said, "Come with us, Uncle." He added that they were on their way to the centre of the capital.
I fell asleep on the way. It was the first time I'd felt the air caress my face. When I woke up, I put my hands over my eyes to block out the sunlight.
They dropped me off in the city's main square. I sat with others on the pavements and, as the hours passed, I came to understand what had happened. For the next two days, I slept under a bridge for hours on end, as if making up for the missed sleep of the last ten years. I stayed there, reluctant to leave, preferring to watch the others celebrate from a distance. Some young strangers left me a mattress, a pillow and a blanket. They came every day at noon to bring me food and water.
On the third day, I decided to return to my neighbourhood. I left the bridge and walked along the pavement, trying to remember the way home. Then I came upon a crowd gathered in front of photos hanging on a fence: faces of the missing and detained.
I weaved my way through the people, down the line of photos, examining them one by one. The crowd thinned out towards the end of the row. That's when I came across my own photo.
Behind me, on the road, a demonstration was moving towards us in a riot of celebratory chants and slogans.
A pang went through me, and I sat down under my photo, trying to speak: "It's me, it's me." But my voice was lost in the surrounding din, and I could not hear it.