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3.juni 2020-Omid Shams Iran/Århus/London

3.juni 2020-Omid Shams Iran/Århus/London

Hvordan er det å være på flukt eller i eksil når verden rammes av en pandemi? 11 forfulgte forfattere rapporterer fra sin hverdag i en digital dagbok. Bidrag nummer åtte kommer fra Omid Shams, forfatter, journalist og litteraturkritiker fra Iran. Omid var fribyforfatter i Århus fra 2014 til 2016.

“Letter to a child to come”

By: Omid Shams

Writing is like whistling in the dark. I think someone said that somewhere and if not, then someone should.

It drains the fear out of your body lets it pour down from your brain and pass through your veins into the pen and then it spreads over the page. It gives you an intoxicating pleasure; a reassurance of helping parts of you to escape death.

It calls upon that unseen one who might hear it and come closer. All writings are testimonies that this unseen one indeed exists. We call that one the reader, the true friend of the book, the one who reads and lets parts of those venomous words filled with your fears and hopes contaminate his body and mind. The one who lets you live inside him. The one who carries you with her, a friend. A true friend. That is why reading is friendship.

My dear Luna, my sweet daughter, you are to be born in three months. You will be my unseen one, my true friend, my reader who will come closer one day. This hope is what keeps me going. But this is not why I’m writing this to you. I’ve been asked to write, not to but for those who want to hear from our pains so they can forget their own. After all, we are experts in all kinds of pain, we are the best in suffering. We will sing our songs of torture and misery and we will be rewarded with the prettiest smile, the most luxurious one you can ever find.

If you ever come to this world, you'll see what I mean by the whitest smile on earth. An extremely expensive one very few can afford. You must have the deadliest armies and largest economies behind you to be able to wear it in this world.

I was asked to write about how I deal with this recent crisis. It’s an opportunity. They have opened the Kapittel to me, even though their borders are still closed to many who live in crisis as. So, I take this opportunity.

I take this opportunity to smuggle you into this text, so you will be read and, therefore, exist even before you’re in this world. Even if you won’t exist in the next few months, even if I won’t be there when you are born, you have existed in this text as I wrote your name here and nothing can take this away from me. Nothing can unwrite what has been already written.

And that is why I take this opportunity to smuggle Helin Bölek into this text. A Turkish woman a musician and member of the leftist folk band Yorum. She went on hunger strike died two weeks ago after 288 days. I also smuggle into this text 1500 Iranians killed by the Iranian regime in the last December protests. I smuggle into this text the Afghani refugees deployed by the fascist regime of Turkey to Greek borders as an Army of the Dead and sent back to Turkey by the Greek border police naked and humiliated. I smuggle into this text all the Syrians dead or alive who were left alone to deal with a crisis which was not contagious. We stand together on this page and watch the world dealing so naively with death at their doorsteps.  We’ve seen it all. It’s not new to us. Social distancing has been with us for a while. At least, in my memory it echoes with the merciless waves of Aegean Sea and the unbearably sweet body of Alan Kurdi on its shores. The world sees the fall of EU when France and Germany block the export of medical supplies as Italy is on its deathbed. But I saw it when it shut down the Mare Nostrum operation.

But as death is roaming on the streets of the world, birth is also on the way. We have never been so close to this unique feeling of standing beside every other person on this planet facing a common threat. And after all, if reading is friendship, writing is love.

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