The thought of entering a writing competition terrifies me. My ideas seem paltry, and the words that sputter onto the page appear inadequate. I spent a lifetime only doing things I felt I could be good at. I’m frightened of exposing myself as the novice I am. Afraid, of writing some words and sharing them. And yet …
… in a world full of real uncertainties, terror and unimaginable horrors, using the word ‘fear’ to describe something as privileged as the freedom to write about ideas and imagined lives makes me squirm. It unsettles me way more than the likelihood of my story failing to ‘make the cut’. So I wrote a story about that world, the real world, where powerful people wage wars about conflicting beliefs and interests without any care for the innocents who suffer.
I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge — even wisdom. Like art.
Toni Morrison
Little Butterfly
I hope the dust settles.
It gets everywhere. Mother would tell me so every time I raced indoors, hungry fingers reaching to tear a bellyful of warm flatbread. She would scold me as I crashed through the kitchen leaving a trail of powdery footprints. I flashed my best smile, hoping to see forgiveness in her sad eyes. I wanted to tell her that the flour on the kitchen table made more mess than me but I am only nine years old and my tummy growled at me to keep quiet. There had been enough missed meals and I was always ready to eat.
Father has gone away so he is not around to indulge me. He used to speak quiet words of forgiveness as I clattered around our cramped home. “He’s just a boy”, I would hear him say, though it has been six months since I heard him say anything. It is hard to remember what his voice sounded like. I sometimes asked why he didn’t come home. I wondered if it was the same as when my schoolfriend Ghassan was taken from us. Mother cried in the bedroom we all share as Grandfather sat me down on the steps outside the kitchen. “Go gently, farashat saghira Little Butterfly”, he murmured. “Your mother needs to find her peace”.
I like it when he calls me his little butterfly, the boy who moves quickly, always curious, a constant blur. The dust on my wings is gathered and dropped as I flit about. Everywhere is coated, bright colours turning pale. Dust cloaks our world in dull grey. The pictures have faded, the ones I drew with crayons brought to our school by a woman from America. All I can remember is how sad she looked when she saw what I had drawn. I liked the colourful crayons but I liked it more when the woman’s friends brought sacks of flour in trucks.
Today I am still.
I am held in place, fascinated by a flash of colour. The butterfly is still too, lighting the space we share with its soft yellow glow. It is in no hurry so I stare. Does it know that we talked about it? How could a butterfly know about a book wrapped in cloth on top of the cupboard, above shelves where we keep our cracked glasses and chipped plates? A butterfly cannot know that the book is older than Grandfather, my mother’s father, the man she calls Papa. This butterfly cannot know that a single word like papa can make your belly feel more hollow than a missed meal. If it could talk, would it tell me where my papa has gone? Sometimes I call grandfather ‘baba’ by mistake but he is the father of our community so it doesn’t feel wrong. I feel his bristles on my cheek as our fingers trace the outlines of ‘Butterflies of the British Isles’. He told me the book was given to his father who passed it on to an inquisitive son. How could my grandfather have been young enough to have a baba?
These thoughts stir my emotions. Tears gather but I refuse to blink. I don’t want to disturb the bishigin, the swallowtail. I remember its name with pride. Grandfather would use the English words in the book to test my learning. Mother would smile at the conversations. She talked of far-off lands where English was spoken. “You must learn the words, little one. Our future will depend on them”. I ask, “But how will Father find us?”, and she turns away, her voice cracking as she whispers. “He is always with us, child.”
I lie very still. The butterfly waits. The longer I stare, the more its markings look like eyes watching to see if I will move. I hold my breath so I don’t chase it away. If the butterfly leaves I will be alone. Where would it go? Where do butterflies go when we don’t see them? I have so many questions. I wonder if Grandfather asks the same questions. Where did he go? Where does my Little Butterfly go when we cannot see him?
I always wanted more time outside to play. I rushed my chores (you must help, you are the man of the house now) before I ran through the market to the playground. There is no school but it’s where we gathered. We would roar like jet planes, hide from imaginary tanks, and shoot with sticks snapped off the burnt-out olive tree. We thought about Ghassan wishing he was with us, and shouted louder to chase away our sadness.
Today, I want to go home. I have had enough of this game, enough hiding. When will someone find me?
I wonder if the butterfly has friends. Are they missing him? Are they waiting somewhere for him to return? How long would a butterfly’s friends wait? The butterfly seems to know the answers. It makes no sound. I copy it, lying still and silent. I am the little butterfly. But I want to go home now.
I cannot tell the time. The call to prayer guides our days and decides whether the sky is light or dark. We can play out if we finish our jobs at home. It feels like playtime should be over by now. Darkness has helped itself to every scrap of light. It swallows sounds. It feasts on my energy. I am daydreaming. I think I hear voices calling out. The faces of the dead are dark memories, too much for a little boy to bear. I dream of fires, noise and falling buildings. I dream of choking dust hiding me forever. Screams wake me—my screams. Dust fills my parched throat and I cough.
I sense the butterfly in the darkness moments before a beam of light catches him. First darkness then more light. Don’t scare him, I want to say. But the voices I hear are not the voices of children. Brightness. Maybe this is what heaven looks like. Darkness. Then a blinding flash. Prayers fill my thoughts as light fills the space we have shared. The heavens welcome me with an opening that grows bigger. Loud voices shout but someone tells them to hush. Good, my butterfly will stay. There’s more light, too much for him. Saffron-yellow wings flutter and lift my precious swallowtail beyond the grasping hands. Raised voices again, then calm. Farashat saghira. I hear the words, but I don’t understand how the light can speak to me. Then again, louder as the light moves: farashat saghira. I realise then that the words are about me and my prayers have been heard. The light flickers. My baba reaches in. To catch his little butterfly.
With gratitude to
a dear friend and talented writer for guiding my penFootnote: Our talented friend
was inspired by this story to make art; there can be few more uplifting outcomes for a writer than to have a character they imagined in words brought to life by another creative’s talent.
It’s so lovely to read this in its finished form, Barrie. And to see you so focussed on forging further with your own form as a writer. It’s a beautiful story. I hope many others find it and help shape that passion further.
This is incredible! Thank you for sharing !!