mylightspirit

On summer nights, a gentle breeze would slip through the yellow-framed window of my room, bringing with it the powerful scents of jasmine and gardenia. The jasmine tree in our backyard stood tall, while next door, a gardenia tree spread its fragrance. As the night breeze escaped through the room, it carried these scents, soothing the restlessness of the day. Each breath I took was filled with the comforting aroma, a blend that wrapped me in a sense of peace, safety, and familiarity as I drifted into sleep.

At noon, the air was thick with the mingled aromas of meals being prepared in kitchens throughout the neighborhood. The scents would escape through open windows, creating an unspoken public menu. The eighteen years I spent in our village house are deeply associated with these fragrances, symbols of safety and comfort that I often longed for.

But when it was time for university, we moved to the city. The fragrance of Jasmine and gardenia was no longer there. The city offered little in the way of those familiar smells; rarely did the scent of cooking drift from a neighbor’s window, and when it did, it felt distant and insignificant. 

On my twenty-fifth birthday, as I walked home, a small cart filled with plants and flowers caught my eye. There, crowned among the greenery, was a jasmine tree, with its delicate white flowers. Without a second thought, I decided that this would be my birthday gift to myself; a jasmine tree, just like the one from my childhood. I arrived at our house with the tree, which was taller than me, and couldn’t help but laugh at the sight as I awkwardly dragged it through the door and onto the balcony.  But, to my disappointment, that first jasmine didn’t make it, and so did the next one I tried. It wasn’t until my mom brought home another jasmine tree that one finally made it through. 

Two years later, at the age of twenty-seven, I found myself in Italy, pursuing my master’s studies. It was a challenging time, and on one particularly tough day, I walked to visit a friend. As I paced along, lost in my thoughts, a familiar scent suddenly drifted through the air. I looked to my left and saw a jasmine tree, tall and in full bloom, its fragrance instantly bringing a smile to my face. The nostalgia filled me, and for a moment, I felt that same comforting warmth from home.

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I was confined to a small room in Italy, isolated and far from the people and places that brought me comfort. I longed for the soothing fragrance of jasmine; the scent that always made me feel safe. But instead, another smell filled my senses; the unpleasant odor of gunpowder and explosives, a haunting reminder of 2006 when those smells had filled my neighborhood, bringing fear instead of comfort.

Odors have a way of haunting our memories, weaving themselves into the fabric of our past, marking moments of safety and joy just as vividly as those of fear and terror. Today, as I watch the harrowing, terrifying images of children, the elderly, women, and men—lives shattered by destruction and death; I can’t help but wonder: how would that odor be ever wiped from their memories? How would they ever be able to have their own kind of jasmine? How long would those memories haunt them?

I think of how long it took me to reclaim that simple memory of a breeze carrying the scent of jasmine, a memory that brought me back to a place of safety and peace. Will these people ever be able to do the same? Are their hearts now filled with an emptiness so vast that no fragrance could ever fill it? Or is it us who are left with the void?