Ojalá
Last night I went to a vigil for 25K+ people who I do not know.
But before that, I messaged my friend Niloo, soon after she had shared the terrible news of Mohammad Ghobadlou’s execution and her thoughts on collective hope. I remembered the day we first met (thank you, bell hooks) on a Summer day. We talked for hours that day. Niloo’s words were so heavy. Her trust in my ears to hear. I asked Niloo yesterday, to tell me more about hope because during our first conversation she told me about rejecting the saviorism-founded offer—hope.
That summer day’s conversation and a childhood memory triggered my response. I shared with Niloo that day that when I was a child my dad always told me not to hope.
Granted, what he would really say to me was:
“La esperanza no es conductiva.”/ “Hope is not conductive.”
and
“Esta palabra viene de su etimología “esperar”. / “This word comes from its etymology “to wait” (in Spanish).”
and
“Eloisa, nunca esperes a que las cosas cambien. Cuando el mundo se nos viene encima, uno no espera, uno actúa. Nunca esperes, Elo.” /
“Eloisa, never wait for things to change. When the world comes crumbling down, one does not wait, one acts. Never wait/hope, Elo.”
I grew up being told to never hope when despair took over. But Niloo has different reasons to reject hope.
Niloo’s words are yet to come to me, but I wait for them as I write, as I mourn the dead, and as I act.
At the vigil, my two companions, classmates, friends held my heavy heart. I have only known them for a few months. But last night they walked with me to the red square, stood, and cried as we learned of the people we were honoring.
A Palestinian student with a microphone prayed.
“Oh, Allāh…”, he repeated as my tears began building up.
OH ALLAH
He prayed for the already gone souls, for those who are still under rubble, for the children, mothers and fathers.
OH ALLAH
He prayed for all the people who have been victims of genocide, including the ones in WWII, the ones in Abiayala, the ones we don’t know about. For our martyrs.
“Oh, Allāh…” he repeated.
It was impossible not to hear my friends sniffing, impossible not to let my tears reach from under my facemask and Kuffiyeh.
Oh, Allāh.
“Ojalá”, I re-membered.
I remembered the day my grandma said “Ojalá tu mamá no tarde,”/ “I hope your mom doesn’t take long,” when my mom would be on her way back from work.
I remembered the day I said that I would be back to my country in two years and my best friend said “ojalá!”
إن شاء الله
in shā' Allāh
The hope we inherited goes beyond one person’s oppression, beyond colonization, beyond genocide, beyond religion, beyond boundaries.
I continue to look for a claim on hope that tells me my dad was wrong. So far I only have memories of hope.
I hope Niloo can convince me tomorrow.
