The Journey to Eternity — Chapter Thirty: What We Could Not Forget

Chapter Thirty of my book, The Journey to Eternity, shared here chapter by chapter as I write it. Earlier chapters: Chapter One · Chapter Two · Chapter Three · Chapter Four · Chapter Five · Chapter Six · Chapter Seven · Chapter Eight · Chapter Nine · Chapter Ten · Chapter Eleven · Chapter Twelve · Chapter Thirteen · Chapter Fourteen · Chapter Fifteen · Chapter Sixteen · Chapter Seventeen · Chapter Eighteen · Chapter Nineteen · Chapter Twenty · Chapter Twenty-One · Chapter Twenty-Two · Chapter Twenty-Three · Chapter Twenty-Four · Chapter Twenty-Five · Chapter Twenty-Six · Chapter Twenty-Seven · Chapter Twenty-Eight · Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Chapter Thirty: What We Could Not Forget

That night I thought about a woman I had never met, although I may have been her.

I had seen her in the archive. A bright consciousness who stood before others and insisted they not decide in the name of one who had not yet replied.

I did not remember her face, her thoughts or her life. I did not even know whether she had a fixed form.

And yet, something in her was mine.

Until not long ago I thought my memories were the proof of my existence. I knew where I was born, who raised me, whom I loved and what I feared.

Now it turned out that these were only part of my life.

I had years I did not remember, perhaps periods longer than all the human history I knew. There were places I had visited, consciousnesses I had loved and promises I had made.

And perhaps there were also those still waiting for me to keep them.

I thought about my mother.

About her voice, her face, the way she would look at me when she sensed something was troubling me.

She was no longer in my human life, but the memories of her remained in me.

Then a thought rose in me that frightened me more than everything I had discovered in the archive.

If I could forget whole lives, would I one day forget her too?

And my children?

Could it be that I would go on existing forever, and within me nothing would remain of the people because of whom I wanted to live?

The next day I found Liara in the garden outside the workshop.

She stood beside a small pool, watching transparent creatures moving above the water. Only when they turned toward the light could their wings be discerned.

"If I forgot my whole life," I asked without preamble, "would I still be me?"

Liara turned to me.

"Do you think your memories are all that you are?"

"I do not know what remains without them."

She sat down at the edge of the pool.

"Once I knew a consciousness who lost almost all her memories. She did not know where she had come from or whom she had known. But every time she met someone who was frightened, she moved closer to him. Even when she had no reason to do so."

"And do you think that was something that remained of who she had been?"

"Maybe. And maybe that was who she chose to be anew."

I sat down beside her.

"I am afraid of forgetting my children."

Liara looked at me.

"Then do not settle for remembering them. Keep loving them in the ways you can."

The sentence was simple, but it stayed with me.

I thought about the woman now living in my human body, about her life continuing alongside my family, and about how I could not take her place.

And yet, my love had not disappeared.

Perhaps not every bond needs to remain as it was in order to go on being real.

When we entered the workshop, Naama stood beside the bowl of light.

"The woman who spoke with us yesterday has returned," she said.

I moved closer at once.

"Is she still at the receiving station?"

"So it seems. She asked that we listen to her before asking questions."

Naama opened the voice connection.

"We are here," she said.

At first a faint rustling was heard.

Then a woman's voice.

"I thought you would not come back."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because many came to ask what happened. Few returned to hear the answer."

"What is your name?"

There was silence.

"Once they called me Mala."

"And what would you like us to call you now?"

"Mala."

"Then hello, Mala."

She did not reply.

For a moment I thought the connection had been cut off, and then I heard a tremor in her voice.

"I forgot what it feels like," she said.

"What?"

"For someone to address me by my name without asking anything of me."

Mala did not begin with a description of the separation.

She told us about a garden.

"I created it with other consciousnesses," she said. "It had no flowers like the ones you know. The colors made sounds, and the sounds created forms. When someone laughed, the light changed."

"Could one visit it?"

"Yes. But one did not need to reach it in order to feel it. We were connected to one another so deeply that a memory of one could pass to another."

"That sounds wonderful."

"At first we thought so."

Her voice changed.

"Later we began to forget to whom the memories belonged."

She told of consciousnesses who woke with longing for places they had never seen, of pain that passed from one to another, and of a love no one knew anymore where it had begun.

"Once I was certain I loved someone," she said. "Only later did I understand that perhaps I had felt another consciousness's love for her."

"And did that make the love less real?"

"The feeling was real. But I did not know whether it was mine."

I looked at the bowl.

"So what is the difference?"

"The difference is revealed when one has to choose. Will you stay with someone because you love him, or because you carry within you someone else's love for him?"

I had no answer.

Mala continued.

"There were those who wanted to separate. Others feared that if they were disconnected, they would lose everything that held them together."

"And what was the right thing to do?"

"No one knew. That was the problem."

She said the seventh connection had asked for more time.

Not to prevent the separation at any cost, but to understand what would happen to consciousnesses who could not exist on their own.

"But others feared the whole connection would collapse," she said. "They wanted to act at once."

"And he refused?"

"He asked that they first listen to those who could no longer speak in their own name."

"So why did they not wait?"

"Because someone decided the danger in waiting was greater than the danger in acting."

"And who decided?"

"I know who began the separation. I do not know who made the final decision. We were so connected to one another that sometimes even our decisions were no longer separate."

She fell silent.

"I tried to stop it. But my request was not enough."

"Why?"

"Because I was not the one who had begun it."

I felt anger.

"Meaning, you could see something terrible was about to happen, but you had no right to stop it?"

"Yes."

I thought of all the times human beings cling to rules even when they no longer serve their purpose.

Then Mala said:

"I was not the only one who objected. There was someone else there."

I moved closer to the bowl.

"Who?"

"Someone who insisted we record explicitly that the preparations for the separation must not be used as if they were approval to carry it out."

I recognized the sentence.

It was the sentence I had heard myself say in the archive.

"Do you remember her?" I asked.

"Well."

"What do you remember?"

"That she was very stubborn."

I smiled involuntarily.

"In what way?"

"She did not like it when someone said a certain thing was self-evident. She always asked: evident to whom?"

I looked at Liara.

"Were you close?"

"Yes."

"Friends?"

"More than that word can explain."

Mala was silent for a moment.

"Once we sat together in a place where there was nothing but darkness. She wanted to know whether beauty could be felt even when there was nothing to see."

"And what did you discover?"

"She asked me to recall the garden I had created. Not to describe it. Only to feel it."

"And did you succeed?"

"Yes. For a moment I felt I was there."

"And what did she say?"

"That perhaps the things we love do not exist only in the place where we met them. Perhaps they go on existing also in the way they changed us."

I closed my eyes.

And suddenly I no longer heard the workshop.

I was in a dark place.

I saw nothing, but I felt a presence close to me. Something moved beside me, and the darkness filled with a feeling I did not know how to name.

I was not afraid.

On the contrary.

There was a deep peace in me, as if I had returned to a familiar place.

Then I heard laughter.

I could not identify whose it was.

I opened my eyes.

I stood again in the workshop.

Liara held my arm.

"What happened?"

"I think I saw something."

"A memory?"

"I do not know."

But the body I did not have trembled as if I had undergone a real experience.

Mala heard us.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes," I replied. "You told me something that stirred a strange feeling in me."

"What feeling?"

I hesitated.

"As if I had been there."

Silence fell.

"Sometimes," Mala said, "places remember us even when we forget them."

I wanted to tell her who I am.

I wanted to tell her that the identifier of that consciousness now appears beside my name, and that perhaps the woman she was speaking of was standing there listening to her.

But I stopped.

If Mala had waited so long for her friend, was it fair for me to present myself in her place?

After all, I did not remember her.

I did not remember the garden, the darkness or the laughter.

I was the same consciousness, and perhaps I was already someone else entirely.

"Mala," I asked, "if you met her again and she did not remember you, what would you do?"

She did not answer at once.

"I would tell her who I am."

"And if she felt nothing toward you?"

"Then I would learn to know her anew."

"Would that not hurt you?"

"Very much."

She paused.

"But I would not want her to love me only because she once did."

I felt something in me grow calm.

"Why?"

"Because love that remains only out of duty is no longer the same love."

Mala's voice began to weaken.

Before the connection faded, she asked a small thing of me.

"Next time we speak, could you tell me about a beautiful place you have seen?"

I thought about the grove.

About the Tree of Eternity.

About the wind between the branches.

"Yes," I said. "I know such a place."

"Then I will wait."

The light in the bowl went out.

I remained sitting before it.

"Do you think she knew you?" Liara asked.

"Yes."

"And do you want to tell her?"

"I think so. But I want to know her first. Not only who she was to me, but who she is now."

Liara smiled.

"Perhaps she too will want to know you anew."

In the afternoon I returned with Adra to the archive.

This time I did not ask to see all my previous life.

Only the continuation of the conversation in which I had tried to prevent the separation.

Nora led us to the dark mirror.

The light appeared, and the ancient room was revealed.

Most of the consciousnesses had already left.

Two remained.

One bore my identifier.

The second stood beside her.

"You know they will not wait," the second said.

"Then we will have to find a way to make them wait," my figure replied.

"Do you think we will succeed?"

"I do not know."

"And if not?"

There was silence.

Then I heard myself say:

"Then at least a record will remain of what we asked."

The image continued.

The two consciousnesses drew closer to one another, and their light touched for a moment.

A small gesture.

Like a hand placed on a shoulder in a hard moment.

Then the image faded.

"Who was the second one?" I asked Nora.

"Her name was not preserved in this part of the testimony."

"Could it be Mala?"

"Possibly. But I cannot determine that."

I looked at the darkened mirror.

I had a strong feeling it was her.

I did not want to turn that feeling into a fact.

But I wanted to know.

On the way back I asked Adra:

"If a person loses his memory, is he still responsible for things he did before?"

She thought.

"The past does not disappear just because we do not remember it."

"So yes?"

"Responsibility can remain. But first one has to know what really happened."

"And what if I discover I harmed someone?"

"Then you will have to decide what can be done now."

"And if I cannot repair it?"

Adra stopped.

"There are things that cannot be restored to what they were. But one can stop repeating them."

I thought about that.

In human life we sometimes ask forgiveness as if it could erase what was.

But forgiveness does not change the past.

It can change the way we go on living after it.

When we returned to the workshop, Naama stood by the window.

She looked troubled.

"Did something happen?" I asked.

"Another voice has come from the receiving station."

"Mala?"

"No."

"From Nir? From Ayla?"

"It does not seem so."

She pointed at the bowl of light.

"He asked to be heard. I left the connection open for speech only."

I sat down.

"Then let us hear."

Naama opened the connection.

At first nothing was heard.

Then seven points of light appeared above the bowl.

Six of them were close to one another.

The seventh stood alone.

Then a voice was heard.

Very faint.

"Who is there?"

"We are listening," I replied.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No."

There was silence.

"Once they called me the seventh connection."

I felt a shiver.

"Were you there at the time of the separation?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what happened?"

"I know what did not happen."

"What?"

"No one waited for my answer."

I thought about everything Mala had told us.

About the consciousnesses who wanted to be freed.

About those who feared to separate.

About those who decided to go on without waiting.

"What did you ask of them?" I asked.

"Time."

"To do what?"

"To listen to those who could no longer speak in a voice of their own."

"And what happened to you?"

The voice grew fainter.

"I remained in the place where my request still waits."

"Do you want us to help you get out?"

There was silence.

"I did not ask to be brought back."

"Then what do you ask?"

"That they stop speaking in my name."

I did not know what to say.

"Who speaks in your name?"

He did not reply.

"Can you tell us?"

"Before you try to understand what was done to me, I want you to understand what was done to others."

I looked at Naama.

"We are trying," I said.

"I know."

I was surprised.

"How do you know?"

The voice was silent for a moment.

Then he said:

"Because you already tried once."

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Do you know me?"

"I knew you before you forgot."

For a moment I could not speak.

I thought about Mala.

About the consciousness I had seen in the mirror.

About the silver bird who said I had existed before my birth.

And now there was another voice claiming to have known me.

"Who was I?" I asked.

"Someone who asked that we not forget."

"Whom?"

"Those who would not be able to tell what happened to them."

I felt as if something in me contracted.

"And do you know why I chose to be born as a human?"

"I know you asked to forget. I do not know all your reasons."

"Then what do you know?"

"That you did not want to be remembered only because of what happened then."

I closed my eyes.

I thought about my human life.

About my family.

About my children.

About all the years in which I was an ordinary woman, knowing nothing of these worlds.

Perhaps I had not fled the past.

Perhaps I wanted a chance to be someone not defined by it.

But that was only a thought.

Not a memory.

"If I do not remember you," I asked, "and if I do not remember who I was, why do you think I am still the same consciousness?"

The voice was silent.

"I do not know whether you are the same one in every sense."

"Then why did you turn to me?"

"Because I heard you asking the same questions."

"Which questions?"

"Who was harmed. Who was not heard. And what can be done now."

I felt something in me contract.

"But perhaps anyone would ask them."

"If only."

That word was spoken quietly.

And there was great weariness in it.

I wanted to ask him more.

About the past.

About Mala.

About the separation.

But the voice began to weaken.

"Can we speak again?" I asked.

"If the way remains open for conversation."

"We will not open a passage without knowing what will happen."

"I am not asking for a passage."

"Then what do you want?"

There was silence.

"That when you hear the story, you will not rush to decide who was good and who was bad."

"Why?"

"Because everyone was afraid. Even those who were wrong."

The voice weakened further.

"And that does not absolve them of responsibility," he added.

Then he vanished.

I remained sitting before the bowl.

I did not know whether the voice truly belonged to the seventh connection. We still had no way to verify it.

But his words touched me.

He did not ask us to save him.

He asked us to listen.

I thought about how for many years I had believed a person is the sum of his memories.

Now I was no longer sure.

There were things in me I did not remember, and yet they went on affecting me.

There were consciousnesses who remembered me, although I did not know who they were.

And there were choices I had made before my birth, which perhaps still led me along paths I did not understand.

But I did not want to go back to being exactly who I had been.

I wanted to know her.

To understand her.

And then to choose for myself who I will be from now on.

In the evening I went out to the garden.

The wind passed between the branches of a tall tree.

I remembered Ayla.

I had promised to tell her how a tree sounds when the wind touches its leaves.

I closed my eyes and listened.

The leaves did not make a single sound. There were soft rustlings, the friction of branches, a movement that grew stronger and weaker.

I tried to remember them all.

I thought about Mala, who no longer remembered how the colors sounded in the garden she had created.

About the voice that claimed to have been the seventh connection.

And about myself.

Perhaps memory is not only what we succeed in keeping.

Perhaps it is also what we pass on.

A story.

A gesture.

A question.

A promise.

I looked at the branches.

In my human life I often wanted time to stop.

For my children to stay small a little longer.

For people I loved to stay with me.

For beautiful moments not to pass so quickly.

Now I had almost unlimited time at my disposal, and yet I discovered that even eternity cannot bring back everything that was lost.

It can give us a chance to search.

To listen.

And perhaps to meet again.

But not necessarily to return to what was.

When I rose from the stone, I felt my questions had changed.

Until now I had wanted to know who I was before I was born.

Now I wanted to know what happened to the people I had known then.

Not only what we did.

But what remained of them.

Who is still waiting.

Who managed to go on.

And who was forgotten because there was no one to tell his story.

I thought about the seventh connection's last sentence.

Everyone was afraid. Even those who were wrong.

Perhaps that was one of the hardest truths.

That not every harm is born of evil.

Sometimes it is born of fear.

Of a desire to save.

Of an inability to wait.

But one who is harmed does not suffer less just because the one who harmed him meant well.

I began walking back to the city.

The next day I wanted to speak with Mala again.

This time not only to ask her about the past.

I wanted to tell her something about myself.

Perhaps not everything yet.

But enough for her to know I do not regard her as an ancient testimony.

That she is not only part of the story I am trying to understand.

She is someone who still exists.

And she deserves to have a future, not only a past.

At that moment I understood something else.

Throughout my human life I thought of eternity as the possibility of not dying.

But perhaps its deeper meaning is not to go on existing without end.

Perhaps it is the responsibility created when we have time to keep choosing.

I did not know if that was the answer I was looking for.

But I knew I wanted to continue the journey.

End of Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One — The Memory That Is Not Mine →

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