🌊 Whispers of the Bosphorus - Episode 6
- Sasteria
- Dec 19, 2025
- 8 min read
Updated: Jan 2
➡️ Malay Translation : Click Here ➡️ Lyric (Letters From Home) : Click Here
🌧️ Episode 6 — Letters from Home
(SasteriaWorld Original — English Version)
The rain returned that Thursday, a soft grey drizzle blurring the edges of the buildings. In the translation office, Leila watched droplets slide down the glass, joining and separating like lives that touched briefly before parting again. The day felt longer than it should have; Andrew was away at a conference in Edinburgh, and the silence he left behind was strangely louder than usual.
She had grown accustomed to his presence—the measured tone of his questions, the quiet scratch of his pencil, the way he paused before speaking, as if weighing every word. Now, the room held only the sound of her breathing and the steady ticking of the clock.
When the mail arrived that afternoon, a single envelope lay on her desk—thin, creased, bearing her aunt Mahasen’s looping Arabic script. Leila turned it over in her hands before opening it, already sensing that something inside would pull her back to a world she had tried to fold away.
The letter was written in blue ink, the lines crowded but steady:
My dear Leila,
We have been worried. Your cousin Hamid’s youngest is sick, but better now. Electricity comes and goes; it is the same heat, the same dust. But I saw you in a dream, standing beside the Nile. You looked strong, as if light came from inside you. Do not forget us. Come home if you can. The hibiscus still blooms, though the rain has been late.
And Leila… there is talk of new changes here. People are restless. Pray that we are kept safe. The world is always louder when faith grows quiet.
With love, your Aunt Mahasen.
Her aunt’s words carried the scent of home—sun-warmed walls, kerosene lamps, the hum of cicadas. For a long while, Leila sat still, tracing the ink with her finger.
It had been four years since she left Sudan. Four years since she stood at the airport in a black abaya, clutching a single suitcase and her mother’s blessing whispered through tears. In those years, she had learned to walk alone, to work, to pray in small apartments whose walls remembered no one. Yet sometimes, like now, a letter could undo all the careful stitching of solitude.
She folded the page back into its envelope and slipped it into her notebook, beside a line she had written days earlier:
Mercy is daily.
Her eyes burned. Mercy, she thought, was also remembering what you tried to forget.
The next evening, she took the bus to the harbour. The wind was sharp, but she welcomed the way it cleared her thoughts. Fishing boats rocked against their ropes, gulls wheeled and cried overhead. Somewhere across this same sea lay her home—distant, dry, filled with voices that still called her name.
She imagined her aunt sitting on the veranda, peeling oranges in the evening heat. You looked strong, the letter had said. The words felt both like a blessing and a burden. Was she strong—or merely enduring?
She stayed until the light faded, then turned back toward the city. The walk home was long, but the rhythm of her steps steadied her. By the time she reached her flat, she knew she would write back that night.
At her desk, she began slowly:
My dearest Aunt Mahasen,
I have received your letter and your prayers. The hibiscus by my window has new leaves. I drink tea the way you taught me, and I remember your voice when I boil the water. Aberdeen is cold, but kind in its own way. I work with Dr. Hassan, and alongside a professor named Andrew, who studies our faith with respect. Sometimes I think he understands mercy better than many who were born into it. Please pray for him too.
Give my love to everyone. I do not know when I can come home, but I carry it with me each day.
Your Leila.
When she sealed the envelope, a calm settled over her—not joy, not sorrow, but something gentler, like dusk easing into a courtyard before the call to prayer.
Later that night, she opened the window and listened to the rain. The city breathed softly, lights flickering along the harbour road. She whispered in Arabic:
Ya Rabb, keep them safe. Keep me steadfast.
In the stillness that followed, she felt Samir close again—not as grief, but as mercy remembered.
Somewhere far away, a letter had already begun its long journey home.
➡️ English : Click Here
🇲🇾 🌧️ Episod 6 — Surat dari Tanah Air
(Terjemahan penuh dalam Bahasa Melayu)
Hujan kembali turun pada hari Khamis itu—renyai kelabu yang lembut, mengaburkan garis bangunan di kejauhan. Di pejabat terjemahan, Leila memerhati titisan air mengalir di kaca, bertemu dan berpisah, seperti kehidupan yang bersentuhan seketika sebelum membawa haluan masing-masing. Hari itu terasa lebih panjang daripada biasa; Andrew berada di Edinburgh menghadiri persidangan, dan kesunyian yang ditinggalkannya terasa lebih bising daripada kehadirannya.
Dia telah terbiasa dengan kehadiran Andrew—nada soalannya yang terukur, bunyi pensel yang berirama, dan caranya berhenti sejenak sebelum berbicara, seolah-olah setiap perkataan perlu ditimbang dengan cermat. Kini, ruang itu hanya diisi oleh bunyi nafasnya sendiri dan detikan jam yang tidak peduli.
Apabila surat sampai petang itu, hanya satu sampul terletak di atas mejanya—nipis, sedikit berkedut, dengan tulisan Arab melingkar milik ibu saudaranya, Mahasen. Leila membelek sampul itu sebelum membukanya, seakan-akan sudah tahu bahawa isinya akan menariknya kembali ke dunia yang cuba disimpannya jauh di sudut ingatan.
Surat itu ditulis dengan dakwat biru, baris-barisnya padat tetapi kemas:
Leila yang dikasihi,
Kami bimbang. Anak bongsu sepupumu Hamid sakit, tetapi sudah semakin pulih. Elektrik datang dan pergi; panasnya sama, debunya sama. Namun aku bermimpi tentangmu, berdiri di tepi Sungai Nil. Kamu kelihatan kuat, seolah-olah cahaya datang dari dalam dirimu. Jangan lupakan kami. Pulanglah jika mampu. Bunga raya masih berbunga, walaupun hujan lewat tiba.
Dan Leila… ada khabar tentang perubahan baharu di sini. Orang ramai resah. Berdoalah agar kami dilindungi. Dunia selalu lebih bising apabila iman menjadi sunyi.
Dengan kasih sayang, Makcikmu Mahasen.
Kata-kata makciknya membawa bau tanah air—dinding yang dipanaskan matahari, lampu minyak tanah, dengungan cengkerik di malam hari. Lama Leila duduk diam, menelusuri dakwat itu dengan hujung jarinya, seolah-olah ingin mengingati setiap lekuk huruf.
Sudah empat tahun sejak dia meninggalkan Sudan. Empat tahun sejak hari dia berdiri di lapangan terbang dalam jubah hitam, memegang sebuah beg pakaian, sementara restu ibunya dibisikkan melalui air mata. Dalam tempoh itu, dia belajar berjalan sendiri, bekerja, dan berdoa di pangsapuri kecil yang tidak menyimpan kenangan sesiapa. Namun kadang-kadang, seperti saat ini, sepucuk surat mampu merungkai segala jahitan kesunyian yang dibinanya dengan rapi.
Dia melipat surat itu kembali ke dalam sampul dan menyimpannya di dalam buku nota, di sebelah satu ayat yang ditulisnya beberapa hari lalu:
Rahmat itu setiap hari.
Matanya terasa pedih. Rahmat, fikirnya, juga bermaksud mengingati apa yang cuba dilupakan.
Keesokan harinya, selepas waktu kerja, dia menaiki bas ke pelabuhan. Angin dingin menusuk kulit, namun dia menyukai cara angin itu mengosongkan fikirannya. Bot-bot nelayan terhayun perlahan pada tali, burung camar berlegar dan menjerit di udara. Di seberang laut yang sama itu terletak tanah airnya—jauh, kering, dipenuhi suara orang yang masih memanggil namanya.
Dia membayangkan makciknya duduk di serambi, mengupas oren dalam panas senja. Kamu kelihatan kuat, kata surat itu. Kata-kata itu terasa seperti doa dan beban serentak. Adakah dia benar-benar kuat—atau sekadar bertahan?
Dia kekal di situ hingga cahaya semakin pudar, kemudian melangkah pulang ke bandar. Perjalanan itu panjang, namun rentak langkahnya menenangkan jiwa. Saat tiba di flatnya, dia tahu dia akan membalas surat itu malam itu juga.
Di mejanya, dia mula menulis perlahan:
Makcik Mahasen yang tersayang,
Aku telah menerima surat dan doamu. Bunga raya di tingkapku berdaun baharu. Aku minum teh seperti yang makcik ajarkan, dan aku teringat suara makcik setiap kali air mendidih. Aberdeen sejuk, tetapi baik dengan caranya sendiri. Aku bekerja dengan Dr. Hassan, dan bersama seorang profesor bernama Andrew, yang mengkaji agama kita dengan penuh hormat. Kadang-kadang aku rasa dia memahami makna rahmat lebih baik daripada ramai yang dilahirkan dengannya. Doakan dia juga.
Sampaikan salamku kepada semua. Aku tidak tahu bila aku dapat pulang, tetapi tanah air sentiasa aku bawa di dalam hati setiap hari.
Leila.
Apabila dia menutup sampul itu, satu ketenangan menyelubunginya—bukan kegembiraan, bukan kesedihan, tetapi sesuatu yang lebih lembut, seperti senja yang turun ke halaman sebelum azan berkumandang.
Malam itu, dia membuka tingkap dan mendengar hujan. Bandar itu bernafas perlahan, cahaya berkelip di sepanjang jalan pelabuhan. Dia berbisik dalam bahasa Arab:
Ya Rabb, lindungilah mereka. Tetapkanlah hatiku.
Dalam kesunyian selepas itu, dia merasakan kehadiran Samir kembali—bukan sebagai duka, tetapi sebagai rahmat yang dikenang.
Di suatu tempat yang jauh, sepucuk surat sedang memulakan perjalanan panjang pulang ke tanah air.
✉️ Teaser – Episode 7 – The Door of Faith
Some doors are not meant to be forced.
They are meant to be noticed.
As questions surface and memories return, faith does not demand entry —
it waits,
patiently,
just beyond the threshold.
And sometimes, belief does not arrive as certainty,
but as mercy,
knocking softly on the heart.
📘 Episode 7 coming soon.
🎵 LYRIC SECTION — Letters From Home
The rain knows my name tonight,
It taps the glass like memory
I hold the silence in my hands,
And let it speak to me
A letter waits upon my desk,
Blue ink, trembling light
From a place I tried to leave behind,
But never left my heart
I learned to walk alone out here,
To breathe without your voice
But mercy finds me when I’m weak,
And reminds me I still belong
Some prayers are whispered, not to be heard
Some hearts are opened before a word
1 يا رب دلّنا إذا ضللنا
Keep us steady in the storm
Across the sea, across the years
and between the faith and all my fears
2 ارحم قلوبنا إذا تعبنا
I not as far as I seem
The harbour lights are breaking slow,
Like answers in the dark
I walk the edge between two worlds,
Tracing mercy with my scars
They say I look so strong back home,
As if light lives in me
But strength is just surviving nights
Where faith must learn to breathe
3 يا رب احفظهم في الغياب
4 واحفظني في هذا الطريق
If I forget, remind my soul
If I fall, don’t let me sleep
Some prayers are whispered, not to be heard
Some truths arrive without a word
5 يا رب اجعل الرحمة قريبة
When lief still waits its turn
Across the sea, across the night
Between the wrong and what feels right
6 ثبت قلوبنا على النور
I am closer than I was before
I seal the letter, breathe it out,
The rain begins to slow
Mercy is daily, memory too,
And home still knows my soul
7 يا رب لا تتركنا وحدنا
Even when the silence stays
Some prayers are whispered, not to be heard
Some hearts are opened before a word
يا رب دلّنا إذا ضللنا
Keep us steady in the storm
Across the sea, across the years
Between the faith and all my fears
ارحم قلوبنا إذا تعبنا
I am not as far as I seem
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➡️ English Translation : Click Here
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