We Hum Together to Re-Member

Part 1:

Transcripts of voice notes recorded between 1638 - 1640 after Hijra by Ylim Marsam, insurgent and member of the “Re-membering” terrorist organization. Her phone was confiscated by the Tunisian National Guard in 1640 and is held at its headquarters in Tunis.

1. Voice note to Aziza on my first day at work. Parc du Belvédère, Tunis. Rajab 15th, 1638 after Hijra.

Hey Aziza. I’m recording this message for you as I stand next to the entrance of the old zoo. Where the fountain used to be. Remember how they’d drain it a few times a year to clean it of all the algae and rotting leaves? I remember thinking back then how scary it looked when it was empty. We used to sit in the café and watch baby ducks follow their mothers around the pond. Isn’t it funny how their feathers change with age? I wonder where they’ve all gone, now that the water is gone. The fountain bed is now surrounded by overgrown eucalyptus, carob, and palm trees - the last living beings still able to breathe in this suffocating city. Remember, I used to work here as a park naturalist, teaching kids about local flora and fauna? Right after you left the country? I wonder how long it’s been since a child last set foot in the park.

You must be wondering what I’m doing here. The government has hired me to investigate why peacock communication is no longer audible to the human ear. The first job to be offered to me in years, Aziza. I haven’t been here in so long, I never even realized the birds had stopped singing. All that can be heard here now is the uninterrupted bubbling of dust filters and engines.

Do you remember playing, “I spy with my little eye a peacock hiding in a tree”? Their shiny feathers were so well camouflaged by the park’s glittering leaves. We would follow their voices for hours until we finally spotted one. The Municipal Department for Pest Control published a report showing that, while bird song has completely disappeared, the park’s peacock population is actually thriving. They occupy roads and construction sites, slowing down traffic and business as usual. The construction of the Circle Road didn’t help manage the population in the slightest. They’ve given me two months to develop a demasking device that will decode their silent communication. If I don’t manage, they’ll fire me, and I can say bye-bye to all of my government benefits.

Aziza, how the hell does one go about studying silent bird blabber? What should I be listening for? I couldn’t even understand them if they did made noise. I’d better get to work. I miss you every day. Give my love to your family. Talk soon.

2. Voice note to self on my first day at work. Parc du Belvédère, Tunis. Rajab 15th, 1638 after Hijra.

Dozens of mute peacocks surround me. The government has equipped me with a bubble-skin, an invisible shield to protect me from peacock attacks, which are becoming more and more frequent in the city. Anytime a peacock gets closer than three meters, it’s repelled by my bubble-skin. This is ridiculous. How will I ever hear their silence from three meters away? I need to turn off this dusty skin. Hey there peahen. Prrrrruh Prrrrrruh. We used to be so comfortable around each other. What happened? I hold out my hand. What are you staring at little one?
She is approaching me slowly. She is right in front of me now, nudging and gently biting my fingers with her beak. It tickles. Beeeeeep. What’s the bloody point in honking if all the cars are soundproof? I turn around. Pathetic. Not even a six-lane highway could prevent this amount of traffic. I turn around again and find that the peahen has disappeared into the forest.

I’ve had it for today. Where was the bus station again? I’m flooded by this overwhelming feeling of shame and self-disgust. I'm just like those colonial anthropologists who "go native" to study living beings as subjects and deliver them up to their oppressors. I feel so estranged walking amongst the billionaires and government employees. They are the only people in town who own micro-dust breathing filters and walk outside nowadays. All the homeless people have been killed off by the air pollution. The sun is setting. Its rays look like they are bleeding into the horizon. Like a coral reef set ablaze underwater. I can’t stop staring at it. Wait a minute, I completely forgot that I have access to government employee teleportation services! I reach for the desert rose in my pocket, close my eyes and whisper my address.

3. Voice note to self after my first day of work. France Ville, Tunis. Rajab 15th, 1638 after Hijra.

I pull off my mask and remember the damned progress report. I open my computer and launch the government intranet.

Pause voice note.

Click Create New Progress Report

Name: Ylim Marsam

Date: Rajab 15th, 1638 after Hijra

Work Hours: 8am - 4pm

Progress: None

Challenges: The noise pollution of the circle and the bubble-skin interfere with my ability to approach and hear the peacocks.

Other: Request to alter my work schedule to car-free hours or nighttime.

Click Save & Submit

Resume voice note.

My phone rings. Shit, it’s my boss. Why the dust is he calling me now? I just clicked submit.

“Hello?”

“Ylim, what do you mean “no progress”? We don’t pay you to hang out with birds in the park. I’ve got hundreds of other people lined up to take over your job if you don’t start making progress soon.”

“Good evening, Jacob. Did you read my report? It’s impossible to study the birds if they’re afraid to come close to me. If I want to hear anything, I’m going to need to deactivate the bubble and work when the circle isn’t bursting with traffic.”

“De-activate your bubble? Try explaining that to the insurance company! Either the bubble stays on, or you’re paying for your nose job after the peacocks peck it off. Work whenever you want! As long as you start hearing those birdies fast!”

4. Voice note to Aziza on the morning of my second day at work. France Ville, Tunis. Rajab 16th, 1638 after Hijra.

We were in the desert together. The desert was surrounded by a forest. We kept moving between those two landscapes. We came across an enormous temple made of mud. It looked like it had emerged through a crack in the earth. It stood exposed to a dry desert plain. We went inside, no other soul in sight. Its ceiling towered hundreds of meters above us. It looked like it had been spun by a spider, with delicate strings dangling down. Small patches of fabric were suspended from these strings and filled the entire temple. You looked me in the eyes and said, without moving your lips, “this is the first land”.

5. Voice note to self on the morning of my second at work. France Ville, Tunis. Rajab 16th, 1638 after Hijra.

My brain feels swollen. I feel it again, that dreadful feeling of dread. I feel like Jacob is watching me, even here at home. I should have left this damned planet like everyone else did. Now all I have are these voice messages. Breathe, you don’t have time for this.

What if the peacocks have given up on the atmosphere? Maybe the air has become too thick to carry their voices? For years, we thought the sea was a vast, silent desert, but we just weren’t listening deeply enough. Maybe the peacocks are tapping into something like the deep sound channel, only it’s beneath the earth’s surface? Don’t I still have that little microphone I built back in the day when the kids and I were listening to bugs in the soil? I’ll need a really long rod.
If the peacocks are using the soil to communicate, it shouldn’t be too hard to hear them. There isn’t much life left in the earth for them to compete with.

Pause voice note.

Click Create New Progress Report

Name: Ylim Marsam
Date: Rajab 16th, 1638 after Hijra
Work Hours: 8am - 9am
Update: I would like to test the deep soil channel hypothesis. I need a 20-meter copper rod and a machine to drill 20 meters deep into the soil. Preferably tonight after rush hour.

Click Save & Submit

Resume voice note.

Rrrrrrring. You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s Jacob again. “This better be good, do you know how expensive copper is these days? We’re sending a colleague there tonight - see how cooperative we are? He’ll bring the material and stick around to make sure you don’t get any funny ideas.”

I can’t stop thinking about the temple from my dream. I have this unsettling feeling that I’ve seen it before. It reminds me of those sandcastles down south in Chemlali. The abandoned homes of the gazelle whisperers. I think my grandma even saw the buildings in real life, before they were replaced with holograms. Google, look up: www.visitchemlali.tn

“The gods of Chemlali are a mythological pantheon thought to have been invented by the people of Chemlali, an indigenous tribe which was Arabized and converted to Islam in 59 after Hijra. The most important deities of the Chemlali pantheon were: Hamada, god of the plains; Erg, goddess of the sand dunes; Waha, god-bird of the oases; Kanat, goddess of the aquifers; Dahhar, god of the sandstone mountains; Mesa, god-bird of thresholds. A Qubba was devoted to each deity. These conic temples were made of sand and tirelessly rebuilt every seven full moons. They were adorned with square pieces of cloth, each one stitched with blessings.”

Grandma Hamida was obsessed with Mesa. She had iconographies hanging all over her house. People thought she was crazy. Hell, most people frown at the thought that there were ever any other ways of understanding the world. لا إله إلا الله والسوق. There is no god but Allah and the market. And sure as hell no bird-like god.

Ok, let’s do this. Brace yourself for the outside world Ylim. I put on my dust mask and reach for the desert rose. How did a crystal cluster of gypsum end up becoming a teleportation device? I blink and land on the park’s drained fountain bed. It’s just before 7 pm. Their guy should be arriving any moment. No point in turning on my bubble. I begin walking towards the carob forest on the edge of the fountain.

There they are again, silently observing me from behind the shrubs. I remember from my years as a park naturalist that they go crazy for raisins. I reach into my pocket to grab a few. This motion makes the birds around me jerk back. They must think I’m about to throw stones at them. I hold out my raisin-filled hand and kneel to meet their eyes. I could fall asleep to the never-ending drone of car engines. I hear shuffling from the woods. Finally! I knew the raisins would work. A small turquoise peahen begins to stride towards me, her gaze wandering between my eyes and hand. One by one, she pecks each raisin until her beak is full. Cheeky girl! Then she runs off into the carob forest.

I can feel a presence, as if someone is standing behind me. I turn around and see a tall body juggling copper rods, surrounded by an oversized bubble-skin. The man is wearing a faded municipality uniform covered in oil stains. Probably a technician. His bubble pops. I begin to see his worn and dry face more clearly. He lets out a deep roar of a cough. “Let’s get these rods into the ground. I’ve been on duty since 6 am. The name’s Habib.” Weird. He sounds so familiar. “Do I know you?”, I ask. Habib replies, “spend much time underground, darling? I’m one of the city’s last sewage divers. Not a sewer in town I haven’t cleared. They sent me down here because they don’t want you piercing any pipes.” He pulls out a Y-shaped twig from his pocket. “What is that thing?”, I ask. “This, my dear, was my grandmother’s dowsing stick. Made of an olive branch from her garden in Chemlali. ماسا يرحمها.” May Mesa have mercy on her? I feel like I’m hallucinating. He keeps his bubble deactivated as he follows me around the park. He’s not even wearing a dust mask. “Aren’t you afraid of getting sick from the pollution?”, I ask. Habib breaks out into a howl. “Did you know that my people’s lungs were used as the matrix for those masks? Tell me, sweetheart, have you ever been outside of the capital?”