Inspired by Severn Cullis-Suzuki’s speech at Rio Summit 1992
Zohar Levy
“I am afraid to breathe the air, because I don’t know what chemicals are in it.” – Severn Suzuki
I wake up to the screams of Irmuun trying to clear his inflamed lungs of fluid and soot, followed by the hushed words of comfort from my mother on the other side of the yurt, where she lays with him fighting uselessly against the bitter winter months. I groan and roll over to my other side, shifting uncomfortably on the old mattress, its metal springs jab into my body. It’s uncomfortable no matter how I lay.
Taking in a cold painful breath of bitter smog, I reluctantly decide to get up. I ease myself up into a sitting position, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The blood instantly drains from my head and rushes to my feet. I groggily trudge over towards the small makeshift kitchen at the centre of the yurt and crouch over to reach the handle of the bulbous iron stove. While scraping out the ash and burned coals that coat our lungs, I restart the fire that gets us through the frigid winters. I peer up to see my mother perched on the edge of her mattress, swaddling my younger brother to her chest. She gestures to me to come over with the nod of her head.
I make my way beside her, sinking down into the concaved bed. The bags under her eyes have darkened and her cheeks have hollowed from malnutrition. Mother had to quit her job in the factory to stay home with us as Irmuun suffers from bronchitis and pneumonia and has already been hospitalised in an intensive care unit seven times since our arrival.
“Naren, when your father gets back from his delivery, we will be taking Börte and her son back to the hospital,” she murmurs trying not to disturb my resting brother.
Börte lives in the yurt behind us with her husband and son. Whenever we make a trip to the hospital they usually come along, as basic services out here are rather scarce, and vehicles are unattainable luxuries.
“I have already told her to expect your father to be here soon,” she informs me.
“Do you think I would be able to go back to school before winter ends?” I ask her.
Her once bright comforting face now appears lifeless in her musings as she contemplates my question. “We’ll see soon, it’s already February,” she utters.
We once lived in the country, as herders, where the soft billowy clouds were visible against the crystalline sky. However, the increasingly cold winters killed off our livestock, forcing us to leave our pastoral way of life and move to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia’s capital. A city in transition, engulfed in a blanket of smog, shadowed by slums of shacks and yurts. My father took out loans to afford the light truck that he uses to transport and sell coal for a living. As soon as we got to the city, Irmuun’s developing immune system deteriorated from the polluted air. He and I are sheltered inside the yurt from the inescapable smog that kills us slowly.
Alerted by the soft mechanical purr of an engine followed by a light rap at the door, I hastily scurry to greet my father, shutting the door behind him to keep out the chilling winds. Embracing me in a hug the hazy smell of soot lingers on his work clothes. His face is adorned with a look of fatigue and muddied from coal transported throughout the night.
“Grab your inhaler and something to cover your face, we will be leaving as soon as your mother has got all of Irmuun’s files,” my father called out as he stood at the entrance. I find a scarf which I tie around my mouth and slip my inhaler into the front pocket of my jacket.
Hurrying out the door, the biting cold crawls its way into my bones as I trudge through the snow towards the truck. The wind howls around me bringing thick clouds of snow that bite at my semi exposed face. My ragged breath billows out of the cloth, which I have wrapped snugly around my face. The morning sun cuts through the haze of smoke and diesel fumes that blankets us. A dry hacking cough climbs its way up my throat, constricting my heaving chest. I quickly grasp my inhaler and bring it to my lips, taking in a deep breath of air that leaves pain in my chest. I climb into the truck and shut the door, tuning out the sound of my brother’s howls of pain and distress.
Alerted by the sound of the door creaking open and the scuffling bustle of everyone getting positioned, I shuffle over to allow space for the neighbours to move in.
“Hi, Naren.” Börte greets me in attempt to rid awkward silence.
“Hey,” I reply. My mother sits in the front beside my father with Irmuun in her arms, making vain attempts to distract him from his pain.
We travel in comfortable silence, passing by thick plumes of smoke drift from metal chimneys that poke up from each yurt, leaving a yellow-grey tint on the sky. Visible now are structures of glass that echo the reality of the city. The tyres of the car squeal as we turn to the nearest parking space, having reached our destination. Clearing my throat, I get out of the truck and make my way up to a narrow stairwell. Reaching the entrance, I step inside the hospital.
Fatigue wafts over me, as I sink into a plastic chair. Inside, children are hooked up to machines, sustaining them. The sound of irregular heartbeats portrayed by monitors, and cries of pain join together to create a sombre soundtrack that settles over us.
Minutes blend seamlessly into hours as I’m the ticking of the clocks place me into a trance by the. My parents join me as a doctor slowly makes her way toward us, her sullen expression speaking volumes. Panic and fear take me hostage.
“We have him in the ICU, as a result of the concentration air pollutants in his bloodstream. As his immune system and lungs aren’t yet fully developed, the chances that he’ll survive the impact of his respiratory illness are slim,” she addresses my parents.
“I’ll lead you to the ICU,” she says softly and gestures for us to follow her.
I don’t move, letting the doctor’s words sink in. The elusive truth is that breathing is something that sustains us, temporarily, as the suffocating and smothering air we take in slowly steals our lives. Day by day we forget how to breathe.
