Forgetfulness
Pic by Layla K. Feghali
Written by, Nayrouz Abu Hatoum
“This is why God created forgetfulness”, my grandmother said. My neighbor, who was almost my age, lost her father to death that day. I had told my grandmother that it was very sad to see my neighbor lose a family member. This perhaps was one of the earliest teachings I remember my grandmother ingraining in me.
Nissyan, Arabic for forgetfulness, not an easy word to live with or work through on an ordinary day, let alone on days of loss. ‘Forgetfulness’ is often associated with negative emotions; it, allegedly, breaks ties and burn bridges, while remembrance often denotes a reference to what holds things as whole or what makes the past livable in the present. My grandmother did not believe in destruction, nor in breaking ties or relations, but there was something for me to unlearn inspired by her sentence. Her sentence made it imaginable for me to reconcile with the weight of ‘forgetfulness’. ‘Forgetfulness’ is a valid emotion that enables us to reconnect with possible presents and futures, while allowing the past to rest aside a little. Yet, where do all the accumulated pasts go? They might not go too far; perhaps they reside in our blood or skin, or in the ghassa, Arabic for feelings and words that form what could be close to a piece of soft dough stuck in the throat. Swallowing, breathing, eating, drinking or speaking become uncomfortable actions. Many women in my family live carrying a ghassa and sometimes die with it. Some even wear it on their neck the way they wear jewellery. It is what it is, another form of being in this world.
Western psychology classifies our past experiences and feelings along scales of suppression or expression. Even more so, it coined the concept of “trauma” as a framework of analysis that describes the ways in which our past pain haunts our present and future lives. My grandmother, like my father who is closest to her in personality, did not believe in the concept of “trauma”. She did not know the meaning of the word or any Arabic equivocal, which does not mean she did not feel pain in the past, or did not feel a past pain lingering into the present, but perhaps when such pain leaks into the present; the present itself becomes clouded with silence and metaphors.
There was a place for silence at our dinner tables. Not everything had to be processed in words. There was a home for such emotions to be hosted in and it was through songs and poetry. My grandmother memorised many folk poetry, songs, and sayings. The ghassa made singing, for her and many women, a form of internal crying; the voice had to shake with the accumulated suppressed emotions. Last time I saw my grandmother in her house, before she died, she sang wedding songs to my cousin who was eight. Her voice trembled a little, perhaps knowing she would not live enough to sing these songs for him when he is old enough to want to marry.
Sage growing in the wild in Lebanon. [Image by Layla K. Feghali]
“Bring kitab al a’ashab” (the book of herbs), my grandmother would often say when I visit her. She then would read about different uses of herbs, with a hesitant voice, tracing and racing through every word in the sentence with her finger. The book’s index classified herbs and illnesses, so one could search the herb or the illness. I dare say that my grandmother’s library consisted of three books: The Bible, and two books of herbs, which she had taped and re-taped every time a page was ripped, a habit that only overused books display.
My grandmother’s favorite herb was meramieh, sage. For her, it was the most immediate medicine that could sooth any pain in the internal organs, stomach-ache, digestion problems, heart burn or menstruation pain. Meramieh, later became my favorite herb to drink as tea or to smell while it burned. Yansoun, anise, was the other herb that my grandmother would suggest to me in case of any stomach disturbances. Yansoun, was always her second choice for an herbal medicine. On rare occasions, my grandmother would suggest that I drink a shot of A’araq, an anise based alcoholic drink.
Words had power. My grandmother used them as a form of magic healing when needed. Every time I got sick, she would ask me to sit next to her. She would hold a small piece of bread with salt sprinkled on it and would mumble prayers while passing the bread on my face, neck and shoulders in a circular manner. We called this healing in its verb form “betkharej”, which means the action of removing, expelling, or extracting the illness or evil eye from one’s body and soul. My grandmother would yawn while whispering prayers I never succeeded to hear clearly. If she yawned, then there was an evil eye on me or an illness that was being targeted and demanded to be expelled from my body. My mother always had a hidden smile of satisfaction when my grandmother performed this form of healing on me, despite her claims that she did not believe in this performance. She secretly believed in this tradition, especially when my grandmother read my coffee cup, finjan, and saw success or good fortune. My mother would mutter the word inshallah (in God’s willing) in response.
Arabic coffee which is about to be used for divination. [Image taken by Albert Nicholas]
Unlike, my grandmother, my mother introduced me to the word “trauma” in its English pronunciation. She learnt it though her undergraduate studies for social work. She would use it right and left when it seemed adequate to explain someone’s behaviour. Despite my mother’s attachment to Western physiological discourses of healing, therapy, victimhood, abuse or violence, she too dwelled in the solitude of forgetfulness as she left much of her past pain untold or unexplored.
If it was not for ‘forgetfulness’, the present or future would not have been decorated with anticipations for unstained arrivals. It is perhaps another form of survival; one that honors memories through their descent into dreams or those moments of departures or loss.