Between the Stench of Fish and the Scent of Emergency Drugs
By Nasser Kamali – June 11, 2025 – London
When you’re sitting in a hospital emergency room, time wraps around your body like a wounded rope. Sounds attack you from every direction—
An old woman moaning, her voice cracked and rough, rising from deep within her chest. It’s as if pain is forcing its way out from inside her, like a bone trying to tear through skin just to be heard.
Nearby, the persistent cough of another woman slices through the air like a blunt saw, leaving invisible marks across your chest. It’s a cough mixed with groans—as if coming from a heart that’s been imprisoned for years.
Across the room, an elderly man seems to be quietly watching the final moments of his life pass by.
Relatives of patients, restless and afraid, fix their eyes on strange machines and the swift, wordless movements of doctors and nurses. The nurses’ hands move like butterflies—restlessly fluttering from one task to another. Injections. Blood pressure readings. Charts. No unnecessary words. No wasted glances. As if they’ve made a pact with pain and befriended life itself.
Sometimes, the face of a nurse bends so gently over a patient, it feels like an angel has silently descended to lay a hand on a fevered forehead or tuck in a trembling shoulder.
Their eyes are like lanterns lighting endless nights of pain.
Doctors move with purposeful silence, like captains in a storm navigating a map no one else can see. They wear no wings, no magic wands—but sometimes, a single injection, a calm sentence, or the warmth of their touch feels like light reaching the bottom of a well full of sorrow.
There’s no miracle in their gaze—but a wordless faith in survival flickers there.
In a corner of the hall, a few psychiatric patients are being held.
Now and then, a scream echoes through the space—full of fear, or perhaps just full of loneliness.
The imposing woman in charge of that section moves constantly, a sandwich or a cup of milk often in hand, her eyes tired but resolute.
Each time a cry rises, she turns like a wave hitting a rock—calm, but relentless.
A young woman is kept in the psychiatric room, shouting and pounding her fists, demanding to be freed.
The large nurse brings her out of the room, and she sits motionless on the floor.
The nurse calls security. They return the girl to the room.
It’s a painful scene.
One guard whispers to another, “She was a student… just broke down.”
Eventually, the police are called—two female officers now stand watch.
The girl, screaming, forces the police back from her door.
The angelic nurses administer a strong injection, so the officers can transfer her to another facility.
Elsewhere, another young woman, this one wearing a hijab, is reciting the Quran loudly, drawing complaints from other patients’ families. The guards finally lock her in a separate room.
And there’s Khâlu, sitting on a plastic chair at the edge of a curtain, slightly slouched, slightly sunken into himself.
His mother lies on the bed, her skin pale, moaning like dead waves—soft and heavy, brushing against the ears but never soaking them.
Dead waves—those that pass you by without ever getting you wet.
Beep… beep… beep—the machines knock rhythmically at the door of life.
Khâlu closes his eyes.
In his mind, he’s back beside the Khor-e-Dei Seifu, where the moist southern wind caresses his face.
The smell of sahak—the raw stench of fresh fish mixed with shilu—fills his lungs.
A jalboot rocks gently on the waves.
A fisherman, humming a shervé, sets off into the sea.
A distant ney (reed flute) begins to play—or maybe it’s just the machine’s beep, twisted in his mind into song.
The cough of the woman in the ER becomes the same cough of a woman once seen on the pier in Zolmâbâd, waving goodbye to her fisherman husband who never came back.
The sound curls and echoes, like the mournful shervé of an old man on that same shore, his eyes locked on the horizon:
“Oh exile… Oh mother… you bring even the sea to tears…”
Khâlu’s eyes, in his dream, are misty windows in humid air.
And in that mist, voices begin to speak.
He listens, quietly.
He doesn’t want to return.
Not to the hospital.
Not to the fluorescent lights.
Not to the white sheets.
He wants to stay there—with the ney, the sea, the jalboot, and the woman singing for her lost fisherman.
But a soft, polite voice tears the curtain of his dream:
“Mr. Khâlu… excuse me… I’m the doctor…”
He opens his eyes.
No gulf. Just the white light of the hospital.
Beep… beep… beep.
Moans from the beds.
The doctor is standing there.
His mother is still on the bed—fragile hands, broken moans, and machines beeping.
Life hasn’t become a flatline yet.
The curves still dance across the screen.
Numbers still flicker.
There is still life to listen to.
And Khâlu looks—
At the doctor.
At his mother.
At the beeping sound,
still echoing in his ear
like a ney…
like a shervé.
⸻
Glossary of Cultural Terms and Local Expressions
Khâlu (خالو):
A Southern Iranian term meaning maternal uncle. Used with warmth, often signifying a familiar older man or figure of care and quiet resilience.
Jalboot (جالبوت):
A traditional wooden fishing boat used in Southern Iran and Persian Gulf waters. Smaller than a dhow, often used for nearshore fishing.
Shervé (شروه):
A Southern Iranian style of singing, deeply emotional and often improvised. It expresses sorrow, longing, and the pain of separation—similar to a mournful chant or folk blues.
Ney (نی):
A reed flute central to Iranian music, known for its melancholic, breathy tone. Evokes solitude and emotional depth, much like a bagpipe in Scottish culture.
Sahak (سحک):
The sharp, pervasive smell of freshly caught fish—often strong and penetrating. In Southern Iran, it is associated with life by the sea, fishing labor, and dockside memories.
Shilu (شیلو):
A mixture of fish residue, sea mold, salt, and moisture that collects on old boat planks. Its thick, musty smell captures the essence of timeworn fishing life.
Khor-e-Dei Seifu (خور دی صیفو):
A tidal inlet in Southern Iran—calm, shallow waters used for mooring boats and gathering fish. The name is likely local and nostalgic.
Zolmâbâd (ظلمآباد):
A fictional or symbolic place name meaning “Land of Oppression.” Often used to represent forgotten, marginalized, or sorrow-filled locales in Southern storytelling.
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