You smell of Sudan, she says as Aslaa gets in the car. I want to ask what that smell is like. What does Sudan smell of?
Cotton, sesame, and sugar are produced in Sudan, Africa’s largest country.
I have never set foot in Africa, but I can imagine the desert, the sand, the burning sunrays. I can imagine the smell of sweet sugar. I can imagine walking down a steep desert land, a wind of dust pulling me back.
I would like to smell Sudan. I would like to smell the sugar and the cotton.
I wonder if I smell like Iran or has it been too long? Have I lost the smell, the scent of its dust? And what do I have left?
Memories. I still have memories.

I hear the rain. It’s loud. So loud that I fear the window will break. The day the guards took her away was rainy too. So was the day they told me she was not going to be released. One of them said it might be years. Or she might be one of the unlucky ones, the ones that never return, the ones that are shot in the back of the head.
The children are silent. They look at me with intense eyes as if I am responsible for Maman’s disappearance. Maybe I am. Maybe I was too silent when she was still here. Maybe I was a fool to think that she would never leave. My daughter seems to understand but I can see the pain in her eyes. She is hiding her anger. She is taking the role of Maman. She is helping her little brother with homework. She is preparing breakfast, making tea, imitating her mother’s moves as she strides from the kitchen to the living room, holding a tray of teacups with meticulous care.
It is their silence that wounds my heart. It is their silence that weighs down on my chest like a rock. Sometimes when the pain is too much I retreat to the bathroom and knock my head against the wall. Three times, four times. Nothing changes.
I go back to where the children sit. They are busy with papers. Or they are trying to look busy.
It has been a month since they took her away. We are getting used to it. We tell ourselves to get used to it. I search for words in between my prayers to say to my girl, to her brothers. But there is nothing. In my prayers I beg God to find me words of comfort for them, for myself.
I hear the rain. My daughter joins me in prayer in her mother’s chador. She fumbles with the veil, struggling to adjust it to her height. She looks like her right now. She has the same posture. She has her mother’s hardheadedness. We pray and in our prayer we talk about our loss. And we no longer hear the rain. And it’s quiet again, so quiet that I can hear her heartbeat.

The things people cry over or yell about or complain about or take with such serious care are funny. There are so many unhappy people, unhappy about one thing or the other. My sister is unhappy. She hates what she does. My cousin is unhappy because he is just 15 and his parents have already set the standards too high. I have a friend who is dear to me. He is unhappy because his own standards are high.
It’s an unhappy world because people become serious about the little things that constitute their big dreams. Big dreams that cost so much. Big dreams like being the greatest writer, the greatest doctor, the greatest teacher, the greatest cook.
But what if the little things are just games? What if we win some, lose the others? What if one day you decide to smile before you go to work even if you hate it? What if you just decide to smile because it’s raining and you’re a rain-lover and you like listening to it, tapping on the window as you help a sick man?
Is it so hard to be happy? To think that even the little things can be as great, as lovable as the big dreams? Is it so hard to just live, take the road and enjoy the scenery?
Or maybe I’m just a clueless kid who, like my sister says, has no life and doesn’t get it.
Maybe I just don’t get it.