Babel

“But the Lord came down to see the city and the tower the people were building. The Lord said, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them. Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other.”

So the Lord scattered them from there over all the earth, and they stopped building the city. That is why it was called Babel—because there the Lord confused the language of the whole world. From there the Lord scattered them over the face of the whole earth.”

Genesis 11:5-9

Mama sent me to the bathhouse to prepare it for Sayina. This pregnancy hadn’t been an easy one for her. Her back was always aching. She never complained, but we all saw it. Her thumbs digging circles into her lower back. Her fist endlessly kneading her left cheek to release the tension, all night long. This one annoyed me the most because I slept beside her. I would hear the whoosh, whoosh sound of her fist rubbing against the blanket over and over again like some form of torture. If she hadn’t been carrying a baby I would have kicked her straight onto the ground.

Mama would follow later with Sayina, helping her waddle through the thick snow on her two swollen feet. I was meant to unlock the bathhouse, stoke the fire, and, in Sayina’s words, fill it with steam “until I can’t see.” I didn’t like as much steam. It made my lungs feel heavy. But I wasn’t the one growing a child.

When I arrived, I unlocked the door first and tested to make sure the key worked, then I began to undress right there on the porch. The moment I began to strip away my layers, one by one, I could almost sense the cold laughing at me, like the devil when he knows his temptation is working. When I was younger, I had a recurring nightmare about the bathhouse. In the dream, I would do just this. Walk to the bathhouse, unlock the door, then strip my clothing down to nothing. The cold would immediately take hold of my body, feasting on my heat, nipping at every extremity. Then I would try to push the door open, and it would not budge. I would push harder, the cold beginning to seize my lungs. The door was jammed. In a panic, I reached down to put my clothes back on, but the pile was gone. So I ran as fast as I could back to our home, but no matter how fast or how long I ran, our house would grow smaller and smaller. I would wake up in a start every time my dream self, purple and lifeless, hit the snow.

Thankfully, unlike my dream, the bathhouse door swung right open. I closed it quickly behind me to not let any of the heat escape. I did just what I was supposed to do, and then I waited. I waited so long I began to feel dizzy from the heat. Where were mama and Sayina?

Dressed again, I made my way back to the house, prepared to scold Sayina for making me wait so long. But the closer I got, the louder the funny noises grew, noises of panic. The unmistakable moaning of Niko having an episode. I began to jog as fast as I could in all my layers. I heard Sayina’s calming voice so I knew Niko would be okay. Sayina was the sweetest older sister, extremely protective of Niko. She could calm him down faster than any of the rest of us. She would kneel down in front of him, squeeze his hands firmly on his lap, and speak to him in a way I can only describe as peace.

I ran into the house and shed my layers in the doorway. I stayed quiet so I wouldn’t disturb Sayina’s comforting, delicate work. Any new noise might trigger Niko and reset the clock. I simply observed. But this time wasn’t like all the others. When Sayina spoke, Niko groaned even louder. When she tried to grab his hands, he would yank them away with great force. Fingers curled, he began beating his head with his wrist bones. Niko was younger than the both of us, but already taller and stronger. I stepped forward to help Sayina restrain him so he didn’t hurt himself. She finally turned to see me walking toward her, and she spoke.

I stopped.

She spoke again.

Niko screamed and hit his forehead, making his right eyebrow bleed.

“Sayina?” I asked, my eyes drifting down to her lips.

She spoke again, this time more frantic. She pointed to Niko, then to me. I only understood what she was saying because we had done this before. She was giving instructions on how to safely restrain Niko, how to pull him back down from his episode. Sayina on the left arm, Elena on the right, singing sweetly. But none of these words came from her mouth. She spoke in some confused, jumbled language. Her voice sounded the same, but her words made no sense.

Now I was dealing with a panicking brother and an ill sister. I needed to find mama. If Sayina was ill, if the baby was in trouble, mama would have to call for a helicopter to take her to the hospital in the city. Sayina couldn’t help Niko in her state, so I had to try.

I knelt down in front of him. His hands were flailing so aggressively that I tried something else instead. I squeezed his right knee, then his left, and hummed his favorite song. I didn’t have Sayina’s gentle voice, so humming usually worked better for me when I tried to calm Niko down. Hmmm, hmm, hmmmm. He stopped hitting himself just long enough for me to grab his hands. This time he allowed them to rest on his lap. I squeezed as hard as I could without hurting him.

I allowed myself one glance back to make sure Sayina was still well and standing, that she wasn’t bleeding or seizing. She was in the doorway greeting mama. I breathed a sigh of relief. Mama was here. It would all be okay.

The most frightening part of that day was mama’s face. Mama was always a hard woman. She loved fiercely, did the heavy work of both men and women, and rarely let her expressions waver. But when Sayina spoke to her that day, her concern was written on her brows. Once Niko was calm, I then spoke to her, and her concern turned to fright. For a moment that felt like forever, we all just stared at each other. Then mama spoke, and Sayina fell to her knees, sobbing.

A month later I moved to the city to live with my cousin. I tried my best to explain to mama why I was going. We needed to find out what was going on, why all of a sudden no one in our family spoke the same language. Sayina couldn’t travel, neither could Niko, and both of them needed mama home. So I left early one morning, giving each of them a kiss on the forehead before I went. I traveled as far as I could by skis, then took a city bus that was thankfully still operating.

At home, we could no longer communicate with words, but we still had trust. Trust between children and a mother who did everything to keep us alive and happy. The deep trust of a baby once connected by blood and oxygen and tissue to his mother. The trust that a newborn has to simply lay his head on his mother’s breast, arms limp by his sides, never once comprehending the truth that if she were to release her grip, he would fall. That trust kept us warm and safe on the day the languages were confused.

This trust did not exist in the city. People were scared. People were confused. People were angry. People spoke loudly as if volume was the solution to their problem. I, along with what seemed like everyone else in the city, ran to the first internet cafe I could find. Every computer was occupied by groups of people, more people hovering behind them, even more behind them. Everyone wanted to hear what the news was saying. Unfortunately, all of us could hear, and none of us could understand.

I made it to my cousin’s apartment by nightfall. I tried to knock gently even though adrenaline was coursing through my veins. When she opened the door, the familial trust enveloped us both. I choked out a sob, and we embraced one another on her couch until both of us fell asleep.

Two Years Later

The city is quiet these days. Not the quiet of peace and order, but rather the quiet of defeat. Most people began to travel in hopes that they would meet someone, anyone, who speaks their language. Some simply accepted isolation as their new reality. Many, too many, ended their own lives. I have spent two years seeking answers, chasing hope, and yet I am no closer to finding them than I was two years ago. And so I will go home, where there is trust.

After a long, painful journey through the cold and confusion, I finally see my home. Thick smoke is billowing from the chimney from a well-stoked fire. I can hear familiar voices, my family. As I get closer, I hear a new voice. A small voice. A girl’s voice. My niece, Sayina’s baby girl. I slowly push the door open. Mama is boiling water in a pot on the stove, the little girl at her feet. She’s too close to the flames so mama tells her to shoo. Sayina calls from the other room, and the girl goes to her. It takes me a second to realize she just understood them both.

“Elena?” mama says, finally having turned to notice me.

Tears are streaming down her cheeks before she even reaches me. Being in her arms again, I feel like a newborn babe. I feel like I can let go.

Sayina runs out from her bedroom shouting my name and other words I can’t understand. She joins the hug, not daring to release me from mama’s embrace. She then bends down to scoop up her daughter. When mama releases her grip, Sayina hands the girl to me.

“Sofia,” she says.

For two years I searched for hope in the city, and she was here the whole time.

“Hi Sofia. I’m your Auntie Elena,” I say, knowing she can’t understand me yet.

But she will.