“Tashaleh and the Di-Seifo Creek”
By Naser Kamali
Royal Free Hospital, London – 26 November 2025
The Lehimar wind slipped through the palm trees that night—
not running, not rushing,
but moving like someone who must deliver bad news
even though his heart isn’t in it.
Khalo used to say:
“When the wind blows like this,
something in the port is ending…
something is shifting—
either in the sea
or inside a man.”
Or perhaps somewhere that only the imagination knows.
A comrade walked beside him—
one of those men whose voices never left them,
though tonight his silence was more frightening than any sound.
As they walked, Khalo whispered:
“Comrade… Tashaleh called me.
I think tonight is her last look…”
The comrade thought it was delirium—
until they reached the edge of Di-Seifo Creek,
and saw Tashaleh—
that half-alive wooden vessel
hung between water and mud,
shaking gently like an old woman
whose eyelids no longer have the strength to rise.
Tashaleh was stuck,
caught in the muddy threshold where nothing dies
but nothing returns either.
A cruel in-between.
Once, she had sailed proudly out of Di-Seifo—
filled with cargo, jashus, and passengers—
cutting the waves clean,
carrying messages of life
to the small island on the horizon.
People waited for her arrival;
futures depended on her.
On her return, everyone in the creek
waited for news from the island.
The gollafs would look up and say:
“What a Tashaleh!
Even the Lehimar wind can’t bring her down!”
But now—
she was stuck.
So stuck
that even the gollafs—
those masters of wood and patience—
could do nothing.
Memo, the gollaf, had only sighed:
“This one is leaving us…
Her heart won’t come back.”
Khalo walked closer.
His steps were unsteady
but his face didn’t move.
He touched the hull—
the wood was cold,
but trembling softly,
like the last flutter of a tired eyelid.
The comrade froze.
Not from fear—
but from recognition.
Something in that tremor—
that faint shiver in the wood—
was exactly like the moment in the prison yard
when the guards called his name.
That final stare.
Not angry.
Not defeated.
Not even pleading.
Just a quiet, human farewell.
He remembered—
When they called Khalo’s comrade in the yard,
he had smiled bravely and said:
“Don’t wait too long for me.
Just keep us alive
in the dawns of freedom.”
And the guard, impatient,
had dragged him forward—
annoyed by the dignity of a man
who refused to tremble.
Now, in Di-Seifo creek,
beside a wooden vessel
preparing to leave the world,
words had no place.
Only eyes remained.
Eyes that said:
“I’m going…
but not in fear.
Not in pain.
I leave you to yourself.”
The prison yard returned
like a ghost.
Not as terror—
but as a strange peace.
A reconciliation.
The kind that comes
when nothing more can be taken.
The comrade whispered:
“You saw that?
She blinked.
That’s the moment of leaving.”
Then he murmured:
“This is not an ending of struggle.
It’s the passage between roles…”
They climbed the Tel,
the small hill overlooking the water—
the place where the port looks like a memory.
The Tel smelled of damp earth and salt.
Khalo bent over the puddle beneath them
and saw his own face—
but not today’s face.
The face of Tashaleh.
The same weary eyelids.
The same quiet surrender.
Panicked, he clutched his chest:
“Comrade…
that was my final look…
not hers.”
“No,” the comrade said softly,
“That is the look of a man
who fears the death of his roots.
Not his own.”
And from far away,
a damam drum began to throb—
slow, steady,
like the heartbeat of someone
refusing to depart.
“Listen,” the comrade said,
“As long as the damam calls,
it’s not your time.
The earth still wants you.”
Below them,
Tashaleh shivered again—
not from pain,
but from effort,
from holding on.
“She’s fighting,” Khalo said.
“She doesn’t want to let go.”
“And until she does,”
said the comrade,
“we stay with her.”
They sat through the night—
with only the yellow glow
of the gollafs’ lamps
on the wet planks,
casting a shadow
between earth and sky.
Every few minutes
Tashaleh took a long, low breath—
a wooden breath
from the depth of her being.
A breath that said:
“I’m still here.”
Khalo whispered:
“No vessel dies before its final breath.
No human, either.”
And for the first time that night,
the silence of the port
felt neither heavy
nor frightening—
but like a short promise of life.
Tashaleh was still breathing.
The night deepened.
The creek turned metallic.
The whole port held its breath—
waiting to see
what Tashaleh would choose.
The comrades stayed at the water’s edge,
listening to the fragile rhythm of her body—
until dawn pressed its pale fingers
across the creek.
Tashaleh,
half-submerged,
half-alive,
still clung to the world.
And the two men
kept their watch—
because no vessel
and no comrade
should ever have to die alone.
Glossary – Cultural & Maritime Terms
Di-Seifo Creek
A natural waterway in Bushehr where boats pass and rest.
A place between water and mud, between movement and stillness.
Lehimar Wind
A fierce autumn wind on the Persian Gulf coast, believed to carry omens.
Gollaf
Master shipwrights of Bushehr—patient, skilled, deeply respected.
Tel
A small hill overlooking the port—place of reflection and memory.
Tashaleh
A mid-sized wooden vessel unique to the southern coast;
symbol of stubborn life and resilience.
Damam
A ceremonial drum used in rituals of mourning and celebration.
Havakhori (Prison Yard)
Outdoor space in prison for limited daily movement;
a place where fates were often announced.