Kisses to the wind

nothing you would take
everything you gave
hold me till I die
meet you on the other side

Pearl Jam

Victor

When they came to the village, I was no more than a baby.Before I could learn my own vernacular language and to worship our Gods residing on the mountains, before I could learn to walk among my people, my widowed father decided to give me, as a present, to a white couple visiting.

My memories start with them, the two intellectuals who brought me to the city.
I became officially Venezuelan with a name chosen randomly as the couple were jealous of theirs. The late registration implies no one really knew my age.
The moment I could walk, I jumped into adulthood, adjusting to barely saying the necessary and working constantly more. Always more.
The couple became my Mamaita and Papaito by name, but I know they only saw me as the helper, the hardworking boy who took care of their grandchildren around the house.
By law of enlarged families, I became everyone’s Uncle Victor, the quiet and always stealthy, physically strong, stoic boy juggling between buckets and brooms, asking for permission to enter the house, having food alone, sleeping in a room outside.
I soon learnt that between a slave and a helper, the line was too thin to make a difference and that I was not included in Mamaita and Papaito’s seven children: I would never be the eighth, no matter how hard I tried.
Mamaita was strict. She took care of everyone’s education, while Papaito ran a leather and wood chair factory, plus the farm. I broke my back in both places.
Years rolled fast and, after graduating, everyone left while I continued to stay, working.
Even Albania, the artist studying medicine in another city, left for good, never becoming a doctor. She had always been an artist.
When Albania moved to Miami, she started sending me some money but nothing could compensate the void.


Lilia
The youngest sibling of my mother was the youngest aunt, Albania.
She was a painter with a pure soul; the only one who treated Uncle Victor with a sisterly love.
When my grandmother died I saw Victor cry endlessly: I understood he truly considered her as his mother. He left the house because my grandfather closed his heart and doors to him.
When I grew up, gone my grandparents, alone I set a goal: to buy the huge old house where we once resided and look for my uncle Victor to return the house he worked so hard for, to him.
Years passed, but I succeeded. I found him and struggled to convince him: he was very hurt, resentful. He had been hiding: it took me five years to find him.
I brought him with me, built a small apartment room and he lived with my children and myself until he died over a year ago.
One day that strong and grateful man whose skin hid age and endeavors, fell sick.
Health issues in my country are harrowing, I never knew for sure what my uncle had, but I assumed it was stomach cancer.
Vìctor was not treated in hospital because there were no supplies and I did not have resources to take him to a private clinic. I took care of him every night of pain, I became his nurse for several months, I attended his humble requests, I bathed him, injected him with pain killers, did my best to halt the bleeding. It was difficult, but I learned many things from him. He never lost his connection with the earth, nature; stray dogs came
every day to visit him because he brought them food from somewhere where he worked. When he was healthy enough, he met them at 5 pm while the dogs were already waiting for him. He talked to them, gave them names and food, while cats joined.
One day while he was in excruciating pain, he told me: Nena, (he used to call me Nena, Baby) teach me to pray, and I taught him to talk with God and the universe, which is the same for me. I took him to the patio and sat him on a chair among the trees. I bathed him and his innocent gaze was lost among the clouds and the sound of the birds, I know he enjoyed it. I also knew he was leaving. He would put his feet on the soil to feel the
connection and neither of us talked much. We just understood each other. He was in so much pain he asked me to pass ice to calm him down and I did.
Those were difficult months but they came with learning; I have never been so close to a person as pure as my uncle.
Due to my autoimmune condition I cannot enter hospitals, however I had to leave him there one day when illness was winning over him: he had a hemorrhage that with my precarious knowledge I could not stop.
He died alone, without me, that was the most painful part, but he and I had already talked about what was coming, I had explained how to surrender to the universe when the time came.
With a lot of effort I sent a funeral team to look for his body, I sent him to cremation and scattered his ashes in a small and beautiful spring.
I went with my children and said goodbye to him; when we threw his ashes and watched as the current carried them with it, I felt he was finally where he wanted to be, between trees and water, between birds and butterflies, free.
My uncle had never tasted freedom: he had been a slave, ripped from the jungle.
Now, whenever I go to the little stream where his ashes were scattered, butterflies chase me and land on me; my daughter says that it is the soul of my grateful uncle.
I am grateful for all the time that I was able to be near him.


Albania
I was born an artist, however my grandmother forced me to study medicine. I left university on my last semester, causing havoc.
I had a girl while still single: in those years and in a wealthy family, it was pure shame.
Victor would have done anything for my little, frail Brenda.
When I left Venezuela, I pursued my dream of becoming and artist and even if I only had 20 extra dollars, I sent them to Victor.
I was the only person to have ever hugged him, my elusive Victor.
The only person who has ever written him a letter, before I took my own life.

Lilia
Albania always loved him.
One day, enraged, Victor told me that if Albania loved him so much why she took her life, leaving him even more alone.
The day I took him to hospital, he carried a small bag with his few belongings. He knew in our hospitals patients are constantly being robbed, but he did not care. When he died everything was stolen, including the letter that was in his pocket.
Víctor reached Albania knowing her letter by heart.

I still go to the water stream and look at the butterflies, each carrying words of love.

‘Victor: my brother, my blood, my memory.
Your name stands for victory, over love and innocence. When you were little, you were extirpated from your land, from your Indian roots, from your Pemon origins, to become my little brother.
Maybe you carry a vague memory of your brief childhood… and your shyness
does not allow you to say anything; how it pains me that thousands of km and miles separate us, but I remember with a special love your scanty way of speaking trying to put a serious tone to life’s simple things, doing hard work and light chores that no one ever valued and which fell into oblivion… but you were diligent to orders which you always fulfilled without delay or mistakes, who knows, maybe in exchange of a smile.
You kept sadness to yourself and shared your happiness with a land where you did not belong.

Wherever you may want to be, may God bless you and I blow a thousand kisses to the wind as in an Indian ritual so that they travel through distance and land on your cheeks, to make your eyes shine and smile knowing that it was a message from your sister from your blood. I remember you …I remember … Albania”

photo

Lilia Josefina Guanipa Cordero is a Venezuelan mother of three, a story teller, a fighter, a feminist and a compassionate soul. Not necessarily in that order, abosolutely not only this.
She is a friend who received me. And that will always come first.

A Love in the Middle East

No one would dream of living where they live.
Unless forced to.
His country
is a bulletin of war
coming from the borders,
originating within.
Hers,
a divided land,
stitched together by wars and treaties.
Proud countries.
Untamed.
Hysterically feared by the world.

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She promises she will.

They have their own way of coping with reality,
of preserving their love.
They pass by the respective daily checkpoints
each one knowing
that today one could be fake,
controlled by the wrong faction,
unfriendly with friendly fire.
Perhaps their last checkpoint.
They both refuse
political or religious discussions.
They dream big and endlessly.
So often together.

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She promises she will.

They talk about their jobs,
the daily insignificances.
It paints normality
where nothing is normal.
They dream big and endlessly.
So often together.

She knows
he is not safe.
He fears
she is nothing more than a target
to reach the headline news.

Extensively,
they both refuse
to follow the news.
He knows where she is at 11 am
She knew he was sleeping this morning.

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She promises she will.

He called her.
He went to the Capital this morning.
And no, he kept it to himself.
The checkpoints
the bombs
the demonstrations
He spared her all these thoughts
“I did not tell you, my love”, he says.
She knows the reasons why

He tells her: Write about our love, my love.
She just did.

Picture: artwork of Laila Shawa

Looking for Hibah Ahmed from Aleppo

‘I was in a relationship with a girl from Aleppo University, where I was studying. But after the crisis started, I don’t know where she has gone.’
(You call it ´crisis´).

Do you still have contacts with someone in Aleppo?
‘Wallah (I swear): No. No one.’

University people, someone.. Relatives, friends.  Think..
‘I wish I had. But no one.’

When was the last time you heard from her?
‘After the events started in Aleppo.’
(the ‘events’ you say)

2012?
‘Must have been around middle of that year. Maybe.’

Did the two of you have any friend in common? Someone you can look up?
‘In Syria you mean? No, no one.’

Love stories cannot end this way
‘I know. But with war, everything is possible.. I was studying with her, in the same department’

But how could it be that you lost contact immediately? Did you look up for her in Facebook, Twitter? Do you have a picture of her? You can look at Google Images and see if you find her
‘Nothing of this. She hadn’t a Facebook account, I lost my phone with her photos.’

I want to help you. How can I?
‘Hahaha. I forgot her. Maybe she is dead. She was such a beautiful girl. Smart. She loved me so much. She was such a giving person. She was even lending me her car. She used to invite me to her home to have food. With her parents. She was everything to them. She was their only child.’

Do you remember the father’s name, his job?
‘I think it was Ahmed. But I never asked her the last name of her family.’

Will you make me a promise?
‘Promise.’

Will you look for her?
‘I am always looking for her. But I have found nothing. She is also the one who lost contact with me. I think she is dead now.’

Do not say it…Do you think so?
‘After all that has happened, no one will remain alive.’

Maybe she left Aleppo long time ago
‘Maybe.’

(After a silence of 20 minutes. Long, heavy minutes)

‘Do you believe I will find her?’
Never give up hope, I believe
‘It’s impossible.’

Do you feel she is dead?
‘Yes. If she is still alive, she would be looking for me too. Because she loved me so much.’

Maybe she is looking for you
‘She knew everything about me, after I arrived to Yemen. I gave her my Facebook account, gmail, my phone number. And I have never changed it.
She promised me she would open a Facebook account, but nothing.
Do you know what? I stopped so many efforts to get married. Because of her. My parents wonder why I am not married yet. I told them I am waiting for someone. But till when?’

Till when you are ready to move on. This is why you have to find her. If not her, her fate.
Is the university closed?
‘In Aleppo, yes.  The life has been closed, not only the university. I really feel so sad because I have mentioned this story. I know I made you sad with this. Sorry dear.
Her name is Hibah Ahmed, of the University of Aleppo – Faculty of Science, Biology Department.’

(you did not say Her name was)


The Broken Loves of War.
Love stories cannot end this way with wars getting in between.

I feel immensely naive, but I ask: Does anyone know of a beautiful girl named Hibah Ahmed who used to study at the University, in Aleppo, Faculty of Science, Biology Department, year 2011-2012?
If so, please tell her nothing has changed. She is still loved, more than ever and someone is waiting for her.