Oneiron

by Laura Lindstedt

  But I don’t feel anything.

  1 SINGER, D., & GROSSMAN, L. (EDS.) 2005: AMERICAN JEWISH YEAR BOOK 2005. NEW YORK: AMERICAN JEWISH COMMITTEE.

  2 BARUCHIN, A., 1998: “WHY JEWISH GIRLS STARVE THEMSELVES.” LILITH, 23:5 (MAY 31).

  3 BARUCHIN, A., 1998: “WHAT CAN ORTHODOX GIRLS CONTROL.” LILITH, 23:8 (SEPTEMBER 30).

  4 IRA SACKER, UNPUBLISHED STUDY FROM 1996.

  5 SAFIR, M. P., FLAISHER-KELLNER, S., & ROSENMANN, A. 2005: “WHEN GENDER DIFFERENCES SURPASS CULTURAL DIFFERENCES IN PERSONAL SATISFACTION WITH BODY SHAPE IN ISRAELI COLLEGE STUDENTS.” SEX ROLES, 52, 369-378.

  6 GLUCK, M. E. 1999: BODY IMAGE AND EATING DISTURBANCES: ORTHODOX VS. SECULAR JEWISH WOMEN (DOCTORAL DISSERTATION, YESHIVA UNIVERSITY, 1999). DISSERTATION ABSTRACTS INTERNATIONAL, 61, 1-73; GLUCK, M. E., & GELIEBTER, A. 2002: “RACIAL/ETHNIC DIFFERENCES IN BODY IMAGE AND EATING BEHAVIORS.” EATING BEHAVIORS, 3, 143-151.

  7 GLUCK, M. E., & GELIEBTER, A. 2002: “RACIAL/ETHNIC DIFFERENCES IN BODY IMAGE AND EATING BEHAVIORS.” EATING BEHAVIORS, 3, 143-151.

  8 KLEIN, J. W. 1976: “ETHNOTHERAPY WITH JEWS.” INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF MENTAL HEALTH, 5, 26-38; LANGMAN, P. F. 1997: “WHITE CULTURE, JEWISH CULTURE, AND THE ORIGINS OF PSYCHOTHERAPY.” PSYCHOTHERAPY: THEORY, RESEARCH, PRACTICE, TRAINING, 34, 207-218; YEUNG, P. P. & GREENWALD, S. 1992: “JEWISH AMERICANS AND MENTAL HEALTH: RESULTS OF THE NIMH EPIDEMIOLOGIC CATCHMENT AREA STUDY.” SOCIAL PSYCHIATRY AND PSYCHIATRIC EPIDEMIOLOGY, 27, 292-297.

  9 KLEIN, J. W. 1977: JEWISH IDENTITY AND SELF-ESTEEM (DOCTORAL DISSERTATION, THE WRIGHT INSTITUTE). DISSERTATION ABSTRACTS INTERNATIONAL, 138, 906-907; SCHNEIDER, S. W. 1984: JEWISH AND FEMALE: CHOICES AND CHANGES IN OUR LIVES TODAY. NEW YORK: SIMON AND SCHUSTER. P. 244.

  10 GOLD, N. 1997: “CANADIAN JEWISH WOMEN AND THEIR EXPERIENCES OF ANTISEMITISM AND SEXISM.” R. J. SIEGEL & E. COLE (EDS.), CELEBRATING THE LIVES OF JEWISH WOMEN: PATTERNS IN A FEMINIST SAMPLER. NEW YORK: THE HARRINGTON PARK PRESS. PP. 279-289; SCHNEIDER, S. W. 1984: JEWISH AND FEMALE: CHOICES AND CHANGES IN OUR LIVES TODAY. NEW YORK: SIMON AND SCHUSTER.

  11 LANGMAN, P. F. 1995: “INCLUDING JEWS IN MULTICULTURALISM”. JOURNAL OF MULTICULTURAL COUNSELING AND DEVELOPMENT, 23, 222-236.

  12 SKIN WHITENING IS POSSIBLE, OF COURSE, AS WE KNOW FROM THE NOTORIOUS CASE OF MICHAEL JACKSON. USUALLY THE RESULTS OF WHITENING ARE SIGNIFICANTLY LESS NOTICEABLE THAN WITH JACKO, THOUGH. THERE ARE NUMEROUS PROBLEMS WITH SKIN WHITENING, BEYOND ETHICS AND PRINCIPLES. THE SUBSTANCES USED IN THE WHITENING, IF THEY’RE EFFECTIVE AT ALL, RARELY PASS SAFETY STANDARDS. IN DEVELOPING COUNTRIES, EXTREMELY POISONOUS CHEMICALS ARE USED IN SKIN WHITENING, SUCH AS MERCURY AND CLOBETASOL PROPIONATE. BETA ARBUTIN IS ONE OF THE MOST EFFECTIVE NATURAL PRODUCTS, BUT IT IS ALSO SUSPECTED OF HAVING CARCINOGENIC PROPERTIES, ESPECIALLY IF IT IS USED OFTEN AND IN LARGE AMOUNTS OVER WIDE AREAS OF SKIN. KOJIC ACID IS ALSO POPULAR, ESPECIALLY IN JAPAN, BUT IT CAUSES ALLERGIC REACTIONS IN MANY USERS AND MAY ALSO BE A CARCINOGEN. CINNAMOMUM SUBAVENIUM, A CHINESE HERB, PREVENTS THE PRODUCTION OF MELANIN, BUT THERE IS NO SCIENTIFIC EVIDENCE OF ITS EFFICACY OR SAFETY. IN ONE CONTROLLED STUDY IT WAS USED SUCCESSFULLY TO REMOVE ZEBRA FISH STRIPES.

  13 “FOOD, BODY IMAGE, AND JUDAISM.” THE CONFERENCE WAS ORGANIZED BY KOLOT-THE CENTER FOR JEWISH WOMEN’S & GENDER STUDIES, WHICH IS PART OF THE RECONSTRUCTIONIST RABBINICAL COLLEGE, AS WELL AS THE RENFREW CENTER OF PHILADELPHIA, WHICH SPECIALIZES IN THE TREATMENT OF EATING DISORDERS.

  14 ROWLAND, C. V. 1970: “ANOREXIA NERVOSA. A SURVEY OF THE LITERATURE AND REVIEW OF 30 CASES.” INTERNATIONAL PSYCHIATRY CLINICS, 7, 37-137.

  15 SCHNEIDER, S. W. 1984: JEWISH AND FEMALE: CHOICES AND CHANGES IN OUR LIVES TODAY. NEW YORK: SIMON AND SCHUSTER.

  16 IBID.

  17 LATZER, Y., & TZISCHINSKY, 0. 2003: “WEIGHT CONCERN, DIETING AND EATING BEHAVIORS. A SURVEY OF ISRAELI HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS.” INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF ADOLESCENT MEDICINE AND HEALTH, 15, 295-305.

  18 AFTER, A., SHAH, M. A., IANCU, I., ABRAMOVITCH, H., WEITZMAN, A., & TYANO, S. 1994: “CULTURAL EFFECTS ON EATING ATTITUDES IN ISRAELI SUBPOPULATIONS AND HOSPITALIZED ANORECTICS.” GENETIC, SOCIAL, AND GENERAL PSYCHOLOGY MONOGRAPHS, 120, 83-99.

  II

  I have touched the world’s wound,

  the lust for life, and the fear of death.

  Christoph Schlingensief,

  Heaven Could Not Be As Beautiful As Here: A Cancer Diary

  YELLOW: THE LIGHT-RAY HOOK OF COMPASSION

  Maimuna, Yalla nako Yalla jox yirmandeem!

  Very slowly, without moving, Shlomith appears next to the women, next to the jeep spinning its wheels in the sand, her toes slightly in the air, her calf near the exhaust pipe, and thus the row is complete again. The row that Polina broke once before—which Polina refused to join because she was afraid, because she didn’t have the courage after all to give up the familiar, safe whiteness—when she opened her eyes and started to talk.

  The row is as beautiful as the most beautiful funeral procession, as sad as the saddest tune, as comforting as the embrace of Mother Earth. The row is complete. The women are not afraid.

  There, somewhere, a moment ago—an eternity, a second ago—they looked at each other once again. Maimuna at Wlibgis, Wlibgis at Polina, Polina at Shlomith, Shlomith at Nina, Nina at Ulrike: each at each. They looked but in a different way than before. No suggestions, no questions, no raised eyebrows. No nervous glances or shirking of responsibility. They checked, like soldiers preparing for a charge check that everyone is completely present, completely awake, that everyone is aware of the command about to come down, the command that they must all execute at exactly the same moment. With their gazes they made clear to everyone, and to themselves, that no one would slip away from the group, that no one would sink into her own thoughts and fall behind. It was time to say goodbye to the white.

  Whence this sudden certainty and unanimity? We don’t know. There are many things that are not within our control. Again we are forced to surrender. And it always feels just as crushing. As if we are never going to learn anything from the thousands and thousands of departures, from being left alone, and from new arrivals. As if the people who appear here individually or in clusters, scrunched up or with limbs outstretched, startled or fast asleep, who disappear after their time is through, aren’t a natural part of this cursed process.

  The women took each other by a hand and formed a circle. If there was any fear, there was more curiosity. If there were doubts, there was more will. The moment had come, and they knew it. The universe with its layers of time, its dimensions, its hidden pockets, its concealed folds, and its obscure wrinkles seemed to gather around them, hold its breath, and wait.

  Then, somewhere something began a deep kettledrum beat like a giant heart. And so it came to pass that suddenly, after forming their circle, the women felt themselves begin to throb as well. They felt the rhythm within them; the pulse pounded in their hands and fingers, which were clutched, unfeeling, in other hands and fingers.

  Then they had a rhythm, a subfrequency pulse, and it urged them to depart. So they closed their eyes and said, each in her own way, out loud or just moving her lips: Oooon . . . ei-ron.

  And nothing prevented them from saying it through to the end any more: Oooon . . . ei-ron.

  And no one curled up halfway through the word. And no one turned tail. And no one decided she wanted something else. Oooon . . . ei-ron.

  Hands disengaged from hands at the final syllable: ron.

  Fingers straightened, springing open: ron.

  And there was no going back.

  Each of them left in her own way, as Rosa Imaculada had left in her own way: like a maple leaf fallen from a tree and tossed by the wind, eyes closed, zigzagging sideward. Maimuna, who seemed to be in a hurry, appeared to plunge head first. Very quickly she began to fade, to sink, to recede from the others, who were still moving; only the soles of her feet were visible for a moment, turning ever whiter.

  Polina stiffly jerked into motion, shaking in place. Wlibgis curled up like a silv
erfish and trembled before disappearing by degrees. Ulrike slid, legs straight, turning around her axis a couple of times. Nina evaporated like a sweater unraveling. Progressively she thinned as her outline dwindled on one side like a stitch had slipped, followed by another and yet another, stitch after stitch; then she was gone.

  Finally the motion took Shlomith. Was she keeping the brakes on somehow after all? Did she doubt? For a moment, for a millionth of a second we hoped that she would open her eyes or her mouth, that she would snap awake and remain with us. In vain.

  Shlomith sank until prone, fully extended on the white, and then she mechanically lifted her upper body and froze in a position the yogis would call the cobra. Unlike the other women, Shlomith began to fall apart. Piece by piece. The left leg from the knee down began to disappear, then the right arm up to the elbow. One thigh, the other thigh, both shoulders. The torso and finally the head, with the hair last of all.

  If someone had come on the scene afterwards, in the center of the great emptiness she would have seen a rectangle outlined by shoes and clothing, within it a large, sable fur coat and a red wig surrounded by a collection of small objects. She might begin collecting the articles of clothing, perhaps wondering which pieces belonged to which outfits. Wondering what story they had once contained, until it disappeared, and whether she could trace it now.

  The women are gone, away from the whiteness. Now they’re in yellow, again at full strength, seven in all. Maimuna is at the center of the row, an arcing trio to either side: soldiers Wlibgis, Nina, and Rosa Imaculada to the left, soldiers Polina, Ulrike, and Shlomith to the right. And Maimuna on the ground—Maimuna is also on the ground. Before the seven, her mouth in the sand, her yellow skirt crumpled under her buttocks, coffee-bean-colored gazelle legs pressed into the burning sand, a rifle barrel against the back of her head.

  Maimuna in the air. Maimuna on the sand.

  From somewhere come ideas, but not words, like whispers but silent. Awarenesses containing questions containing other intertwined awarenesses and new questions, all of which rotate around one of them.

  Mai . . .

  . . . muna . . .

  Maimuna?

  Are you . . .

  afraid,

  Maimuna?

  Are you . . .

  afraid?

  . . . they

  done . . .

  . . . have they . . .

  Bad?

  Maimuna!

  At first it’s only chaos, worse than chaos. The chaos could be suppresed if someone could shout SHUT UP, at which point they would all shake their heads, startled by the shout, keep their minds in check, and be quiet. But shouting isn’t possible. Speaking quietly isn’t even possible. And their heads are so full of thoughts. Strange thoughts. Wonder, expectant emptiness. Preparedness to act, will. And then it comes to pass that suddenly a strange hope smashes in amongst the wonder. Maimuna, I’d like to go down to the ground and straighten your dress. Your behind is showing. And then it comes to pass that the onlookers take fright and an alarmed WHAT! encroaches everywhere.

  The picture has stopped. The whining of the jeep engine still echoes for a moment, the patter of the sand on the hood, and then quiet.

  The women glance at each other in confusion. An alarmed WHAT! swirls within them, hounding them, blurring their thoughts. It breaks the firm impression that has overcome them all: they all want to go down to the ground to straighten Maimuna’s dress.

  Everything is a mess, an unbearable cacophony for all of them but one.

  The Maimuna in the air looks at the Maimuna on the ground. There she is, the stupid girl who set out to transport dangerous cargo over the border at her uncle’s urging. She’s the one who’s most dangerous to herself. If she’d kept calm. If she’d known to keep her big mouth shut. But instead she schemed: she claimed she was pregnant, trying to save herself with a hastily constructed lie. But Iman would have done the same. Iman and maybe Liya Kebede too, and maybe Alek Wek—none of them would have given up without a fight. She took up Mikael, the long-legged man with the camera and the beautiful pictures, as her weapon.

  Mikael, Marcel, and Maimuna were forced out of the Amanar Restaurant. They walked, stumbling before the rifle barrel, hands crossed behind their necks. They were shoved in the back of a car, Maimuna on top, her face against the front of Mikael’s trousers, her stomach and the packages strapped to her stomach on Marcel’s knees. There, as the car tossed about and the exhaust pipe popped, she thought her idea through. She would be carrying Mikael’s child. Then the wheel of the jeep sank in the sand.

  Shlomith suddenly lifts a finger. She has a question. Listen up! The women, all except the Maimuna in the air, concentrate on Shlomith. Listen up! Shlomith has a question that all of them, especially Maimuna, need to hear. Why didn’t they just take the belt away from you, Maimuna?

  In that moment it becomes clear: Shlomith is speaking to them. They accept Shlomith’s question, which thus becomes their own calming, bright thought: Why wasn’t the belt enough for them, Maimuna? They ask this in their own heads because they’re listening to Shlomith: Why, Maimuna? In echo they ask why, until Nina, pragmatic and efficient Nina, makes the bold move that someone has to make if they want to move forward from the situation:

  You aren’t going to start bartering with them, are you?

  But the Maimuna in the air doesn’t hear. The Maimuna in the air wants to go down next to the Maimuna lying on the ground. She too wants to take the hem of the dress and pull it back down over her thighs. To say on her own behalf: Take me, take me and sell me, but let me live.

  They’re on their knees . . .

  Those men.

  On the . . .

  . . . sand . . .

  Next to you.

  Are they . . .

  The women begin to feel the thoughts flow; they begin to separate their own from the others’. One focuses, and the others give her space. Thus the idea becomes heavier, so weighty that it suffuses everything and spreads everywhere. The others accept the new idea as best they can. They begin to sense that they can exchange thoughts. They begin to understand, through trial and error, that the brightest idea is the same as the heaviest idea, that the brightest idea comes through most easily, that it can be built upon. They begin to realize that if they want their voices to be heard, they have to struggle, they have to leave behind the safe, soporific murmuring. They have to participate. To think. Each one of them has to think.

  How can we help you, Maimuna?

  What should we do?

  The picture is still stopped, because the Maimuna in the air wants it so. The Maimuna in the air would like to slap the Maimuna on the sand across the cheek, to see the trajectory of the punishing hand, to experience chastising her: You stupid girl! She would like to kneel and press her lips against the cheek of the Maimuna lying on the ground: You dear, hopeless girl, dear God. Because it is she, she herself, Maimuna Mimi Mbegue, prone on the sand, soles of her feet facing the sun.

  The Maimuna in the air takes a step forward. The women move and close the chain behind her. Polina and Wlibgis reach for each other, and the others move closer too, compressing the half circle.

  The gunman stands behind Maimuna, finger on the trigger. Could their combined strength crush him? The other men stand a little farther off, their hands raised. Could they disarm them all? Could they turn the course of events? One head is about to turn: one man is about to check if there are any dust trails. Is anyone coming after them yet? Soldiers? And where is the new car?

  The Maimuna in the air makes an attempt to push Marcel, who like Mikael has fallen to his knees in shock behind the Maimuna on the sand, closer to the floating women. Of course nothing happens. The worlds do not meet, except for that millionth of a second during which Maimuna took her last step to prepare her very own journey. She can’t help anyone else. Or change the direction of time.

  But Maimuna prolongs her transition. She needs the women’s help to die.

  Maimuna?


  Do you feel it too?

  Is it coming from the ground?

  Something is shaking under us.

  Is it your heart pounding with fear?

  The noise of the cochlea, a kettle-drum-like pulse, a beating felt in fingers, toes, scalp, and spine . . . Mikael and Marcel huddle on the sand, resigned, weaponless. They have never carried a pistol on their trips. They believed they could get by with words. Now they believe they will be executed. They tried to make a deal before Maimuna opened her mouth—futile. They barely managed to throw all the céfas in their pockets on the ground before Maimuna told her lie to save her skin—meaningless. The crumpled bills didn’t interest the criminals. Marcel and Mikael are the best currency here.

  And Maimuna.

  Smuggled out of Africa.

  A virgin—that important piece of information came from Monsieur Moussa himself.

  And what now?

  “I’m pregnant!”

  Maimuna told her lie as soon as the men ordered them out of the stuck jeep. The first furious shot was fired in the air. After that the butt of an assault rifle struck her to the ground. One set of hands thrust up her dress and ripped the buckskin belts from her waist, one by one. Then angry hands quickly turned the weapon and the muzzle of the rifle was pressed deep into her hair, hard against her skull.

  If Maimuna thought she would arouse pity by claiming she was carrying Mikael’s child in her womb, she was wrong. If she thought she would become worthless in the men’s eyes because of a pregnancy, she was right. But she was once again wrong if she thought worthlessness would mean freedom for her, that she would be turned loose to walk in the desert, that she would be allowed to follow the jeep tracks back to Timbuktu. She is not Bonaventure, who was allowed to escape through the Amanar kitchen. She is not Samballa, who was able to walk out the front door and disappear. She was Maimuna Mimi Mbegue, the great disappointment, the stubborn adventurer, who had ruined her future by spreading her legs for a European at the wrong moment, without permission, simply out of a desire for pleasure.