io9 is proud to present fiction from LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE. Once a month, we feature a story from LIGHTSPEED’s current issue. This month’s selection is “Inside the House of Wisdom” by Tamara Masri. Enjoy!
Inside the House of Wisdom
By Tamara Masri
This is the eighth floor of the Al-Ahli Memorial Library, my favorite place in the building. When the elevator door opens, it’s like walking into a quiet circle of glass. So, as we walk, I’m going to whisper. People are reading, writing, drawing—it’s such a beautiful place to work. I’m probably the luckiest librarian in the world.
Let’s start with the east side, overlooking the city’s skyline. How many kites are in the air? I counted five. Now let’s go to the west side. The sunset’s candy colors, mixed with the blue sea, remind me of Rukab ice cream. Look at those windsurfers zigzagging around the fishing boats. On the shore, I see a girl washing a white horse.
Even though this room is a circle, the outside of the building looks like a spiral. A single helix going up to heaven, was the architect’s inspiration. The design came to her in a dream: an angel told her to rebuild the House of Wisdom, the Grand Library of Baghdad during the Abbasid era. The angel said that our dark times were over, the golden age had begun. And here we are.
Sixty years ago, during the dark times, this was a destroyed hospital. Many people lost their lives. No books or beautiful buildings will ever bring them back. This was built to honor their lives and everything they sacrificed for our liberation.
Every day when I come to work, I have a morning ritual. See in the middle of the room, where all the big books are? That’s the “Oversized” section. I go straight to the Tribunal Volumes; there are at least fifty. I pick one at random and read for a few minutes. I remember the names, the stories. I pray.
Before we move on, you’re welcome to go see it.
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INTERNATIONAL TRIBUNAL FOR TRUTH AND JUSTICE; VOLUME FIVE
TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS
JULY 10, 2034
Pages: 5900-5904
The Tribunal met, following a brief recess, for the Afternoon Session at 01:30.
MARSHALL OF THE COURT: The International Tribunal for Truth and Justice is in session. The prosecution will now present Exhibit No. 8090 as evidence against the defense. The exhibit describes a twenty-year-old medical recording, dated April 23, 2024. The prosecution may now present Exhibit 8090.
START OF RECORDING
This is Dr. Sufyan al Bursh. The date is April 23, 2024. The time is 2:29 in the morning. Patient 1090 was born about an hour ago. Vitals are good; slightly underweight, one week premature but other than that, I’m looking at a healthy baby girl. After this recording, the memory stick will be attached to the patient, placed underneath the identifying tape on her chest. On the tape I wrote, “Daughter of the martyr Sabreen al Sakani.” Father’s family name is Joudeh. Mother, alongside family, was killed in airstrike. The neighbors who brought her mother in say that the baby has no known living relatives. Father and older sister, age three, were also killed. Extended family as well, but we’re still waiting to see if the rescuers can reach them.
This audio is to be transcribed for the health ministry. Send another copy to whichever organization is working with the International Court. Take screenshots of each patient entry. Document everything.
Requesting the following audio be given to the child, when she is older.
Hello, daughter of Sabreen al Sakani. Your family name is Joudeh, but I don’t know your first name. I’m Dr. Sufyan, I delivered you today. I try to record a more personal message for as many patients as I can, but usually there isn’t time. Now there seems to be a pause in the explosions. I want to tell you everything I know about you, while I can.
We’re at the shore under a white tarp. Beneath you there’s sand, before you the sea. It’s cold outside, but you look warm sleeping in your incubator. I can hear the waves and the sound of the generator that you are hooked up to. You’re covered in wires; you look almost as though you’re from another planet. Under the round glass, you look like you’re in a lit-up space egg. You seem safe. Peaceful. I’m saying this because I want you to know that these kinds of moments can exist.
Before you were born, I saw you as a small mound in your mother’s belly. She was already a martyr when she came to me, God rest her soul. There was a second when I thought to leave you in there, swimming in that warmth for as long as you could, so that you join her on the next journey. But I’m a doctor and I took an oath to save you no matter what. One day I hope you’ll understand.
Your birth was not really a birth, but like looking for treasure in a shipwreck underwater. Something calm came over the room, as though it was orchestrated. A journalist had a camera, maybe you can see the footage one day. When I pulled you out of your mother, you were blue, like a guppy still in your fish phase. Everything was silent, as though it was just you and me at the bottom of the sea. I didn’t think you would survive. I scooped the remains of the old world from your mouth. You waited. And then it happened. Your first breath. Small ribs began to move up and down in my palm like a wave. A nurse shouted, “Miracle!” That was the first word you heard. My hands were shaking. Your eyes were open.
Then I realized there was no one to feed you. I thought I made a mistake; I never wanted you to suffer. But then the nurse found a new mother in another medical tent. Yesterday, an aid packet thrown from a helicopter fell through the church’s ceiling and onto the mother’s leg. When I walked into her tent, she was praying to the Virgin, pleading to keep it. She was so happy to feed you. I don’t know how long she’ll be able to do that. She’s also hungry.
Over the horizon of the black sea, I see a light on the water. I think it’s the aid pier the U.S. claims to be building. I don’t know how long it will take for the food and medicine to get here; it’s been months. I can’t bear the thought of listening to you cry for milk for days. What if I can’t feed you? I imagine taking you in your space egg, turning it into a little ship, and sending you off into the water. Towards that light or backwards into paradise.
I don’t want to lie to you. I struggle with doubt, with weakness. I don’t know if bringing you into this world was the right thing to do. When you grow older, if you resent me, you can always call. I’m not your father but you can call me ammo Sufyan, think of me as an uncle. And if I’m not alive, you can call my three children. My two children. Najah and Lina. My third, Thawra, the youngest, was killed last month with my wife, Nadia. They went to get flour from the aid truck. The sniper shot Nadia in the leg, and then anyone who tried to save her. I treated over one hundred people that day. The hardest was my own baby girl.
May God rest their souls, the souls of your family—I’m crying now—I’m sorry. The journalist is still here with his camera. I won’t let the enemy enjoy my grief to feed their wounds. We must have strength. We must have faith.
My brother Adnan was a surgeon at Al-Shifa Hospital. When they attacked the hospital a few months ago, Adnan wouldn’t leave his patients, he moved them to another hospital. They tracked him down, took him to prison. We were told that they killed him last week. I recorded the death date as April 19, 2024. Four days ago, I got a phone call. They said they were coming, and I was next. But I can’t leave my patients. I can’t leave you.
I won’t leave you.
The explosions are starting again. I’ll have to end, but there’s one last thing I want to tell you.
A family tree is made from nasl and asl. Nasl is lineage, your genetic relations, the branches. Your mother’s branch is al-Sakani; your father’s is Joudeh. Asl is origin, it’s what you came from, like the seed underground. It’s you and everything before you. The enemy can always cut your branches, they can even cut the trunk. But they can never go below and stop the seed from sprouting. They cannot change the beginning: the fact that you were here, the fact that you existed. When I held you, I felt no fear, no hunger. You were a miracle. You were a victory.
END OF RECORDING
***
Inside the House of Wisdom, on the eighth floor of the library, just under the peak of the helix, is the Omega Point. According to the Abbasid angel who visited the architect in a dream, the Omega Point unifies the spiral of the helix—from the rubble of the Al-Ahli hospital below, through the Tribunal Volumes lining the stacks, to the sky above. Here the architect chose to preserve the evidence of the dark times—our history. That is why I come here every morning. To remember the stories, the names. To pray. Sometimes I can almost hear them, saying: Yes, it is possible.
About the Author
Tamara Masri is a writer from Ramallah, Palestine. She studied anthropology at Tufts University and holds a master’s degree in evolutionary biology from Imperial College London. In 2024, she attended the Clarion Writers’ Workshop. Her work has been featured in Hypocrite Reader, 3 Quarks Daily, and +972 Magazine.
© Adamant PressPlease visit LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE to read more great science fiction and fantasy. This story first appeared in the December 2024 issue, which also features short fiction by Melissa A Watkins, Lincon Michel, Pat Murphy, Cressida Blake Roe, Adam-Troy Castro, David Anaxagoras, Gene Doucette, and more. You can wait for this month’s contents to be serialized online, or you can buy the whole issue right now in convenient ebook format for just $4.99, or subscribe to the ebook edition here.
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