A new sort of grief burrows into me, a cloistered, unreachable, immutable ache. I can’t see, smell, or embrace it. It just lodges in me, taking up space, a thing within a prison within a prisoner within the Cube.

I long to see Klara. To say, “Otva`li, mu`dak, b`lyad!”—Fuck off, you asshole, fuck!—to someone who would smile in response. But Klara is gone too. I hope for her sake that she has made her way back to Russia. A few other guards come and go, but I rarely see their faces, and none speak to me through the speaker, as Klara used to.

No one visits much anymore. Attar hasn’t been on in a while. I would like to take a shower, though I would give up ever showering again just to hear music. The silence of solitary confinement is altogether different than the soothing, promising silence of the sky. The quiet here has a sharp, jagged edge that tears at my mind. I try to take refuge in the sounds on the other side of my skin—conversations and films, stories and cries, sniffles, and fires in my mind. I conjure songs I know. And I dance. But memory, however practiced and refined, is no substitute for actual music.

I start praying, bowing and prostrating. There is no adan in the Cube. I pray when I am moved to do so, though it doesn’t deepen my faith or give me anything except something to do. My nails, which used to be strong, good nails, are brittle and cracked. Sitti Wasfiyeh used to get on me for painting them. She said the bright red made me look slutty, that I was asking to be harassed. “Protect your reputation,” she used to say. May God rest her soul.

I miss Mama and Jehad. I miss Bilal. They finally gave me a book about communism called How Communism Will Destroy Humanity. I read it. It sounds convincing, but I know better, because Bilal—the most complete human being I’ve ever known—is a communist.

Anatomy of Home

ANATOMY OF HOME

I WAS MET with the aroma of msakhan the day I returned to Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s home, where at least twenty people had gathered to welcome me. I rushed first to Hajjeh Um Mhammad and kissed her hand, the top of her head, then her cheeks. “May God bless and keep you, my daughter. May He fill your days with joy and goodness,” she said.

I made my way to greet everyone, scanning the room for Bilal. Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s sisters and their families were there, and Ghassan and his sister had brought fresh sweets from the bakery.