Night, Damam, the Saving Shervah, and the Comrade Who Didn’t Fall Off the Boat
By Naser Kamali – London, 14 November 2025, Mother’s Home
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The midnight wind had spread its breath across the water.
The lenj—like an old man clogged with sorrow who hadn’t laughed in years—
moved slowly.
The jashus were asleep;
but Khalo’s comrade was awake.
Awake awake.
One of those awakenings that drags a person to the edge of madness.
Bijan Mallah-zadeh—
the one made from the clay of Bushehr itself!
Two weeks earlier, he had arranged the seaman’s card for him.
He had told him:
“Son… go on the boat.
The sea either kills you or saves you.
But it never leaves you quietly.”
And the sea… it doesn’t hold anyone softly in its gaze!
Khalo’s comrade had told Bijan that when a man feels
no one is waiting for him,
his voice gets lost in the waves—
that’s when he starts thinking
leaving is lighter than staying.
Bijan had told him that suicide isn’t just a personal problem;
it’s the product of a system that crushes a human being.
Bijan himself was a hardworking jashu of Bushehr—
he understood pain.
Khalo’s comrade knew exactly whose door to knock on.
Bijan had told him:
“A person is the product of social relations.
Someone crushed under the weight of a system
is actually a victim of a world that has taken away his ability to live.”
Through Khalo’s comrade’s introduction to Captain Majid,
the captain agreed to take an inexperienced jashu on board.
The captain knew well that once they reached Dubai,
he wouldn’t be coming back.
Khalo’s comrade boarded the lenj,
hoping maybe the sea would wash the memory of the cell away.
But do you know what prison is?
It’s the only place where even if your body walks out,
your mind stays locked inside those walls.
He went up to the deck.
The wet wood under his feet gave a bare, hollow sound.
But it wasn’t the wood…
It was the sound of his thoughts running.
If Khalo were there, he would have said:
“Son…
that sound isn’t the waves.
It’s your pain pounding from under your skin.”
The sudden attack of death
hit him—
sharp, electric, instant.
“Jump…
right now…
wait one more moment and you’ll be forced to live again.”
His legs weakened.
His breath collapsed.
Images poured into his mind
like the sudden humidity settling on the skin:
• the smell of a damp cell
• the interrogator’s sentence: “You’ve got no one”
• the humiliations on the day of release
• his mother’s eyes
• the heavy gaze of people
• and that rootlessness harsher than death a thousand times
These weren’t thoughts;
they were the weight of an entire class.
The weight of a worker who is broken but refuses to break.
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Damam — the rhythm of pain, the rhythm of poverty
After the cymbals,
the damam began beating inside his chest:
“Ton…
Ton…
Ton…”
Each strike was one of his wounds:
“You’re extra baggage…
You belong nowhere…
You matter to no one…
You’re alone…
You’re useless…”
These are the things society tells a poor man—
not directly,
but through every unemployment,
every night without shelter,
every humiliation.
Khalo’s comrade
placed his hand on his chest.
The damam pounded.
A pain spread across his ribs.
His vision blurred.
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The edge of the boat — where life and death touch
He went to the edge of the lenj.
He placed his hand on the cold wood.
Below, the waves whispered:
“Come… come…
Jump! Now’s the time—no one will notice!”
But another voice—
Khalo’s voice,
the voice of roots,
the voice of life—
said:
“No! No, comrade…
you are still lohami!
You’re stuck, but you’re not drowned!”
The black water below swirled in a dance of death.
Small waves, like deceitful hands, whispered:
“Come… come… it’s easier here…”
Inside his head, a voice said:
“Not your family, not your friends,
not even Captain Majid…
your life was nothing—
your presence or absence makes no difference.
End it here.”
And then another voice—Bijan’s voice—said:
“No, son, no!
What you’re about to do…
it’s not your choice!
The world crushed you,
but you are still lohami—
stuck, not drowned!”
“Not shame,
not memory,
not prison…”
He stepped forward.
He kneeled.
His hands trembled.
The boat was cold.
The darkness beneath him was endless.
But Khalo’s comrade
was afraid not of death—
but of living again.
A humid wind slapped across his face.
His eyes burned.
At that moment,
instead of the waves,
instead of the wind,
instead of the boat—
only the interrogator’s voice rang in his skull:
“You are nobody…”
And this sentence
is worse than any torture.
He kept circling on his feet—
kept going to the edge—
kept pulling back—
deciding again and again,
but failing to carry it out.
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Shervah — the voice of roots, the voice of life
In that darkness,
suddenly a shervah rose.
Not from a radio,
not from a phone.
From behind his bones.
The voice of a woman—
the voice of his mother—
with a wet throat:
“My son…
just a little more…
don’t go…
you still have roots…
I’m still waiting for you…”
That shervah—
what science calls a “protective factor”—
in the South, we call it
the breath of a mother.
The shervah shook his heart.
Tears came.
He wiped them.
He felt ashamed.
But the shervah continued…
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The groan of a jashu
At the very moment
only two fingers separated him from falling,
a sound came from behind the boat.
A short sound,
simple,
but human:
“Ahh… my back…
easy there, jashu Khalo…”
The jashu was a Khalo—
thin,
sunburnt,
far from his family,
but standing.
Pulling the rope.
Breathing hard.
Fighting.
Khalo’s comrade turned.
He looked at him.
Inside he said:
“This man…
with all this pain…
with all this poverty…
is still alive.
Still fighting.
Why should I surrender?
Death is not a solution for poverty.”
His legs trembled.
He stepped back.
Sat down on the wet floor.
It was cold—
but safer than the waves.
He held his head in his hands.
He shook.
But it was a fall that doesn’t lead to falling.
Until morning, he neither slept,
nor died,
nor cried.
He simply endured.
He experienced life—
not just tolerated it,
but endured a night harder than death itself.
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Arrival in Dubai
When the lenj reached Dubai,
he went to Captain Majid:
“Captain…
I don’t want to go back.”
Captain Majid
didn’t ask anything.
Didn’t blame the family.
Didn’t lecture him.
He just looked into his eyes—
and saw the entire night of battle.
Not curious,
not moralizing,
not judging.
He said what men of the sea say
when they understand one another:
With a nod—
“Go, son…
if the sea didn’t kill you,
then your time isn’t over.
Wherever you go, remember:
life is beautiful.”
He didn’t look back at him again.
Khalo’s comrade walked away.
From Dubai he reached a safer place.
Found work.
Stayed alive.
And still,
sometimes at night
when the humid wind blows,
he whispers to himself:
“Bijan…
if you hadn’t given me that card…
if that jashu hadn’t groaned…
if Captain Majid hadn’t let me go despite the responsibility…
if the shervah hadn’t risen…
I would be under the waves now.”
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Glossary (Updated)
Sanj (Cymbals):
Metal plates struck together to create rhythmic sound; played with damam.
Damam:
A traditional Bushehri drum used in both mourning and celebration.
Shervah (Shorooh):
A traditional Bushehri singing style—two-line poems, often romantic or sorrowful.
Lenj:
A large traditional wooden boat.
Jalboot:
A smaller wooden boat used for fishing or short-distance travel.
Sharji:
Hot, heavy, humid southern wind.
Jashu:
A seaman or deck worker on a lenj.
Khalo:
Means “uncle,” but also a respectful cultural title in southern storytelling.
Lohami / Loham:
A person “stuck” in life but not defeated—
like a lenj trapped in coastal mud, waiting for the tide to rise so it can return to the sea.
Symbol of being battered but not drowned.
This story is based on a real event.
Bijan and Majid are real individuals.