7:34 a.m. in Helsinki
7:34 a.m. in Helsinki is cold, the air unused, yet I can almost feel it like a knife going through my head. In four minutes, the metro will reach the station. Remnants of jasmine perfume in the air mix with the smell of smoke. The decor of the metro station consists of a metallic silver dome with circular openings of various sizes, through which the street cannot be seen. A young woman and her boyfriend stand near me. The girl's black hair covers her back. Her warm skin is adorned with a little makeup. Her Finnish boyfriend looks to the other side, fidgeting. She also looks at that side and asks him in broken Finnish:
How do I say "cheat" in Finnish?
The metro enters the station. I find an empty seat. I put my phone in my pocket. I look behind the window, to the Isoisäbridge’s upper section that is missing in the fog. From afar it looks like the teeth of a giant smiling creature.
I see the fog and feel like I'm in a mirror. Being inside the metro is not a pleasant thing. But it somehow confirms the fact that everyone has their own place in this world.
The metro enters other cities: first, Kulosaari with its luxury houses and embassies. Then the cities of east Helsinki begin. I can tell right away from the graffiti on the bridges and walls.
The small screen in the metro reminds us to put on a mask. Then a picture comes on, with the phrase: Losing the environment means losing ourselves.
I open my book, The Rock Garden by Nikos Kazantzakis. After every mad period, I come back reading Kazantzakis. Hunted by the feeling that I need to read again. Will it take me away from the madness and indiscretion of last summer? A quote from the book says: Life is a very simple miracle and happiness is within everyone's reach, it’s detailed on the scale of man, it lasts for one moment and that's good.
The times with the man last summer were many and noisy, accidental gatherings, but when I look at them now, I find them to be like a single moment. I have always wondered about the process of sorting through memories that people practice throughout their lifetime: do they collect and accumulate, or dispose of what they have collected to start over?
When I get off the metro, there is a red building on the other side of the station. Its balconies are teeming with plants and decorations. This view is different in the evening, when the image of a high house and its yellow lights give warmth and peace. But now, enveloped by morning and fog, the house makes me recall the first moments upon awakening: rage, heaviness, and a swollen belly.
“7:34 a.m. in Helsinki is cold, the air unused, yet I can almost feel it like a knife going through my head.”
Cars pass quickly without noticing me. The windows of the station reflect the lights of advertisements: sports, technical, and nutritional equipment. On the ground, station-goers leave some of their traces. There is a postcard with the painting Café Terrace at Night by Van Gogh, a card without any words. I also find a cloth bag with these words on it: Friends are the flowers in the garden of life.
I don't usually stay more than two minutes at the station. On my way out, a little girl and her mother are walking a distance ahead of me. They are both wearing pink North Face raincoats and seem to be heading to kindergarten. The child is telling her mother about a Nintendo strategy game in which participants can build and design their own islands. And in the game, she could wake up at night and go from her sleep to someone else's to see their dream. The mother isn’t interested in what she is hearing. She turns her gaze towards the lit-up ads of the buildings on her left. The little girl is looking for something else. She is looking for another kind of fun. The little girl is waving at the cars.
About the Author
Aya Chalabee is a Finnish author of Iraqi origin. She is a fiction writer and freelance translator, and she holds a BA in community interpreting from Diaconia University. No Sun in Baghdad is her first short story collection (2015) and Two Friends in Ur is her latest (2021). Her works also appeared in Eksil anthology by Screaming Books and Kiila magazine. She has translated the children’s book Siinä Sinä Olet from Finnish to Arabic in 2020 and participated in Linnun Neljä Laulua 2022 book as a translator.
When not writing, she can be found hiking in the Finnish forests, painting, photographing around, haunting local cafes, and meeting people. She is currently based in Helsinki.
Illustration by Sarah Muren.
