Reem Al-Kamali’s The Statue of Delma — winner of the 2018 Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity — is a compelling historical fantasy that sweeps readers back in time to 3000 BCE. The setting is Delma Island, as isolated “as a rock thrown into infinite space.” The narrative unfolds as Nurta — an artist, oracle, and priest — sculpts a deity from stone, shaping both its form and his own fate.
From ‘The Statue of Delma’
By Reem Al-Kamali
Translated by Fatima ElKalay
To my grandmother
Aamina AlShaahee
who planted in my imagination
forgotten stories
Foreword
It is rare for nature to appoint a seer to unveil our fate, or to send a reader to decipher the unseen signs that encircle us. Instead, nature floods us with wishes, so that our instinct to inquire is never lost. Throughout our brief lives, we see how nature seduces and unsettles us—ever shifting, never constant, swaying to its own whims, restless in its madness. There is no certainty except to entangle ourselves with it—or to tame it. And the truth is, we are taming ourselves in the process. In this way, nature secures its survival, never perishing—even when we do.
New Moon
A crescent moon was born after three blind nights of darkness. And with it, Nurta, born after three days of labor, on the island of Delma[1], in the Lower Sea[2].
The crescent bloomed into a full moon, while Nurta grew into a contradictory oracle, and many other things.
I present to you the story of Nurta the Delman.
1
Eye
Nurta stretched, his limbs elongating. He flexed his willowy spine backwards until the muscles of his forearms bulged, and the pectorals of his slender masculine body protruded. He was well aware of his handsomeness but never distracted by it, for he cared only that his body was sculpted. He lit more coals in the temple fire, scattering upon them the sensual powdered frankincense, and in the glow of the embers his face grew more bewitching.
His mood eased as the fragrance of the white smoke spread through the air. He pushed back a lock of hair from his eyes, and the allure on his face became unmistakable. He stood in silent contemplation, then poured himself a cup of date wine and downed it in one gulp. A radiance touched his brow, his expression alive with clarity. With newfound vigor, he returned to the statue.
Let me imagine how I can instill astonishment in a delicate eye. Should I define the eyebrow by chiseling away its edges? It must be an eye that makes a worshipper feel safe-or should it be the eye of a conqueror, an eye that gushes love? How do I make the supplicator feel peace, that this god understands his pain and need?
What eye should this be?
Nurta had sculpted the body with ease in a matter of days. He had shaped the roundness of the head and defined the lower frame of the statue. But the true challenge lay in chiseling the eye—carving the pupil, refining the eyelid—so that the observer, upon seeing it, could discern its secrets.
He sighed, a loneliness washing over him like the stillness that enshrouded Delma, this island adrift in an unadorned sea. He was tired of striving to etch real features into a rock the size of half his body, to give life to the stone face before him.
He had vowed to devote himself to this face, to carve a home for it in stone. He would shape features so distinct that they would move the eyes of the inquiring devotee. Guided by the tenderness in his heart as he sculpted, he would work until a profound serenity settled into the face. In that moment, faith would manifest to those who sought it. And despite the torrent of rain outside the temple, fine beads of sweat traced his brow from the strain of precise chiseling, falling onto the stone god as it emerged.
Small statues of the deities of the Delman people rested on built-in shelves in the temple’s storage room, waiting to be distributed during the monthly feast, in the first moments of moonrise. Clumps of unshaped clay lay scattered, ready to be molded into dishes. Tiny, unfinished seals sat nearby. A passage without a door opened onto a chamber for worshippers and visitors, where pottery of various sizes stood in neat rows, filled with offerings—molasses, oil, date cordials, salted fish, and all that had been preserved to last.
Nurta overworked himself with his ceaseless carving. If not for the numbness creeping into his limbs and the exhaustion weighing on his body, he would not have stopped or even slowed. He set the stone aside on a bench and studied the face for a long while. At times, he spoke to it; at others, he merely whispered, wondering how he could carve features that had yet to emerge—when the rawness of stone was so enduring.
The temple stands silent in the invisible afterglow of twilight, suffused with the scent of frankincense. Before the last light disappears, I shall have finished sculpting the eye of the statue that symbolizes the protecting god of our sea and our island, now drowning in rain: Delma, a port in the middle of the sea— my rock and my island, isolated, no other islands in sight. How can I find a convincing expression to carve the eye anew? I have planted truth in the right eye; what about the left? Shall I leave the eyebrows and return to chiseling the ears, balancing their symmetry with my small stone chisel? I can avoid the eye, not yet created, and remove layers of stone from the ears. Don’t the best of ideas come to us when we stop searching for them? Fleeing a thought only deepens its presence in my mind, and how often that has happened! I escape, not caring, then what I desire rushes towards me, hitting me right between the eyes.
Nurta found the rock after a long search, for not every rock is fit for sculpting. First, there was the red Delmonite, salt-infused and native to Delma—the very stone from which the island took shape. At a single strike, it would shatter into glimmering, colored sand. Delma’s women sought it, breaking off its brittle pieces, pounding and grinding them into red, green, and yellow powder. They moistened it, kneading it in their palms, lump by lump, molding it into ornaments, its pigments staining their fingers. A joyous ritual they repeated with the birth of each new moon.
He pondered for a long time, walking through the colorful valleys. Delma’s copper, useless atop the mountain heights, streamed down with the rainfall, carving small, vibrant grooves before merging with the sea and dissolving into its salt. The shore would take on a tint, mostly red, luring both Delma’s children and adults alike. They bathed in it without fear of drowning, for the copper floated upon the water, lifting their weary bodies and healing them.
For days, he surveyed the rocks. Then, one day, he found it, near Delma’s multicolored mountain in the north. The mountain was fortunate to be bordered on either side by two small forests. One was a forest of stumps, formed by the ebb and flow of tidal erosion, stumps that stood somewhat proudly with their bare roots. In it were random patches of muddy land, visible for all to see, where scattered seeds seemed to yearn for human attention or the intervention of the skies. In this place, small dangerous animals thrived. The other was a forest of agave—trees of chastity and patience, the very things that make life possible.
I recognized the rock in that small space, protected only by bright stones. It lay there, sleeping between shards and fragments, between smooth, rough, and shiny: a gray rock, verging on black, standing apart from the others. I approached it with immense joy, but before I could reach it, a dove alighted upon its surface—not on any other stone, but on this one, calmly perched, neither quivering nor anxious. It rested for a while, then spread its wings and took flight.
Closer I came, with joyful steps, towards this treasure, so alluringly large. Gently I touched it, filled with admiration. I sat by it, leaned against it, placing my palm upon it, then my ear, listening, searching, inhaling its scent. Despite how it awed, I was afraid it might soften like the other scattered rocks. But as soon as I placed my cheek against it, it exuded strength that permeated my face and echoed in my body. In that moment I was sure that it was a hard but noble rock, that could be scraped and sharpened and cut without crumbling or falling apart.
Whether our mind submits to a rock or not, the rock senses our love despite its unyielding nature, whether we wish it or not. It is as if a hidden passion springs forth from our consciousness, so that we submit to it willingly. Many are the rocks of Delma, but to seek out a piece to carve, to take as a god to turn to, to pour our devotion upon, is another matter. Searching is knowledge; between one rock and another, isn’t a person able to distinguish their god? Or—who distinguishes whom, I wonder?
Oh, how many small statues reside in the homes of Delma! Those that could fit in your palm. Some to repel evil, some to bring blessings, others that the islanders turn to every day. Then there are the ones I distribute to the people in the temple at all times. But Delma, in the prime of its absolute freedom, in the middle of the sea, deserves an outstanding statue of stone to represent what it worships, like other civilized nations around it in the Lower Sea, in our gulf and islands and coasts.
A profound peace filled my body. I came to understand that the rock’s power sprang from its formidable sense of self—firm yet unassuming. We exchanged words, and it appeared modest—its quiet whispers revealing a unique, enduring essence. Our conversation began as an illusion, but the rock touched the very core of my heart and set it ablaze. What was its allure? Was it different in soul, in elemental nature? Did its energy spark under sun’s brilliance? Gently, I asked: What is your form? Are you from Delma? Who brought you here, the sea?
It is impossible that the sea merely cast you out of its distant waves, for you are so heavy. Were you hurt? Did you shudder from the storms and the wind? Did the rain ever distress you? Did the summer blaze ever scorch you? Did a gracious cloud ever shade your rare body?
It was a pure rock— clear, unblemished, and shining. I had never seen a rock of more noble origins. A rock that supplicates unto itself, one that accepts its own fate without complaint. Forever unchanged, enrobed in light, at home in its scintillating blackness.
Nurta rose from his spot, unaware of how much time had passed. He turned his eyes to the darkness above him: a splendid dark body bursting with a desire for freedom. It was as if this rock wished to race Nurta’s own hands into becoming a divine being. He was decided. He would sculpt it, shape it, give it life, make it memorable, an eternal monument among all the rocks of the world. From sunrise until the afternoon, Nurta rolled the rock, bringing it to the temple, to be his own.
On the surface of every rock there is a point of entry that must be discovered: a lip, a rim, a raised point. Nurta with his sense and experience knew where to find it. Here he would begin. He held his tool, moving with utmost caution. He made the first crack, striking the stone precisely so no harm would come to it, carefully chipping away at the stone, until rough debris scattered in the empty space and mingled with the sweat of his brow.
Days passed. Nurta worked with the same vigor, bound to his tool, channeling all his energy into it, his senses heightened. He moved none of his body save his hand. You would find his heart beating in time with the shuddering of his ribs, as he measured the distance between his shoulders. Or he would be worried and fearful, keeping his guard up so that he would not make mistakes as he struck the stone, moving between the ripples of the chest, the abdomen, the waist, for the body’s forgotten geography needs caution, after all.
He paused to wipe his face clean with a small cloth. He smoothed the locks of his hair and adjusted the folds of his gown. Then he turned once more to the face in the rock, keenly observing the eye—inquiring, scrutinizing. It was as if he had fulfilled a dream with his eyes wide open, though he knew it was still incomplete. Just then, it was as if he had discovered something. He resumed his assault on the rock, carving into it until he had shaped a tear duct.
Why, I wonder, have I chiseled a tear duct? Do the strong gods of Delma weep—those gods who belong to our sea and rock, who have long resisted and shall resist still the madness of the sea? This rock that I hold belongs to the homeland, and those who belong are no longer bound by delicate sorrow. Indeed, the rock itself would be ashamed, for sorrow clings to its own dignity. Stories of compassion gently emerge from its hard core, like the refined language of truth, and the sea cannot conceal what lies within. This rock is from our land and ourselves—not summoned, nor some distant deity we worship far and wide.
Nurta smiled, elated. He started over, shaping his deities with his chisel and mallet, his wedge and nail, his knife and razor. The right eye gazed ahead, truthful and complete. Now he addressed the left eye, shaping the eyelid, to define it without making it severe. As the eyelid lifted, the statue awoke, emanating presence and awe. But still Nurta continued to chisel above the pupil; perhaps it would lessen the eye’s piercing glare and grant it a measure of tranquility and stillness. Now the eye seemed kind, almost grateful. This did not please him. He moved to the tear duct, scraping at it to heighten its expression of gratitude. But the more he did, the more mysterious the eye became.
He decided to refine the teardrop’s edges, fearing that if he stopped now, the gaze would remain veiled in ambiguity—and every strike upon stone is recorded forever.
Then suddenly he stopped. He looked attentively once again at the eye, until he could find within it the certainty that the people of Delma would be able to journey into its heart with their emotions and find in this small, enigmatic circle a truly divine eye, a place of repose for their pains and worries.
Nurta resumed his observation:
The eyelid is droopy; it gives the impression of a lazy, sleepy eye—of meaningless submission. I will chisel the delicate lid, lifting it a little, so that the gaze appears alert, for the lid is the guardian of the eye, protecting it without robbing it of its mysterious light. But why must all our sentiments be hidden? Why is all that we perceive obscured, and every transgressive thought in our minds laid bare in our gaze?
Oh, these betraying eyes, exposing what we long to confess and what we wish to keep hidden.
It is impossible, I know, for one eye to resemble another, but what of a pupil that is somewhat sunken? It seems more like the look of one watchful, poised to strike, than that of one merely awake, and this does not befit our gods. I will bring it forth, but only slightly, so that it does not shift from being hidden to protruding or defiant. I seek only for it to be luminous. I will adjust it enough so that it appears searching, gazing at me. Should not the deity reflect something of the worshipper?
Nurta carefully set the unfinished statue upon the seat—a statue with a body and a head, its face bearing a nose still in need of refinement, ears awaiting trimming, and searching eyes caught between sincerity and mystery. The work held him captive; he pressed on relentlessly, yielding only when fatigue and the urgent need to return home forced him to pause. He smoothed back his hair and rose steadily toward the hearth, seeking warmth in the glow of the embers.
It was winter, complete with rain, and Delma stood isolated in the middle of the sea, hit by waves from every angle. Every rainy season, it drowned in itself. It grew ever more isolated, and within that isolation a deeper seclusion expanded all the way to its beaches—the island engulfed in healing salt water, constantly assailed by the wildness of the sea. Delma, isolated from sprawling coastlines and luminous gulfs, lay entirely before the whims of the waves—an island held captive to all that is unbearable; a lost, lonely place, like a rock thrown into infinite space. And for that, the Delmans always surrendered to the belief that the rain carries secret messages that fall into the sea and are dispersed by its moisture.
Famine descends upon the island when the rainy winter lingers too long. The sea lashes, the wind roars, and puddles overflow. There is no fishing, no sowing—only silence wrapping around the islanders like a shroud. Nurta thought of his house, nestled beyond the hill in the island’s west, where his parents and four siblings resided. A house of stone with a single wide room, its four corners holding all they owned. On nights of relentless rain, if he was late in returning home, fear and worry would gnaw at them, and sleep would slip away in his absence. He imagined them now, chanting and chanting the sun’s hymns, pleading for warmth.
A vision of the bleak sunset came to him—Delma would soon be swallowed by darkness, its only solace the ceaseless murmur of waves. No stars to guide the night, their light smothered by thickened clouds. Nurta recalled his mother’s words: “There is no mercy in winter’s rain.” And how, in moments of both feminine radiance and quiet resentment at the cold, she would ask, “Isn’t winter a man?”
Where is my childhood, the one I long for inside me? I was never naïve. I was disheveled but quiet, gluttonous, too. My desires were boundless, and life before me on the island was beautiful, despite my poverty. I was full of questions, and the labor of seeking. I observed all things, in nature and my surroundings. Once I slowly walked with the sun disk, from sunrise to sunset, from the east of the island to its west. My feet swelled as I guarded the ants’ path for days, observing the precision of their kingdom and its ceaseless, monotonous flourishing.
That day, I became aware of a new sense within me. I observed the wind—how it sculpted the clouds, tugged at the hem of my gown, set the branches swaying, and unsettled the green leaves until they fell. How many bounding steps had I taken from the island’s east to west, guarding my shadow, measuring the shifting path of my return? I wondered—if the sea and the wind were stilled, would I hear a hush heavy with meaning?
I stretched myself upon the earth and lifted my gaze to the sky. It lay bare, empty of all things. What sign was there to fix my gaze upon? And so, I looked into the nothingness. Thus it was that prophecy took hold of me.
The temple’s roof shelters me now—my body, my honor, my dignity. I am sated. But once, when the sky was my only roof, I answered only to it. It shaped me with its rains, its winds, its dampness, and its mist. On the island, I learned to dream. I was shaped by heat and cold, by the emptiness of my belly and its ceaseless rumbling. Hunger invited me to reflect. I roamed endlessly, drawn to anything that shook me, stirred my understanding, awakened me, or led me to conceive something new. And so, over time, I shaped myself—a reader of nature’s signs and a seer of its course.
The winds do not rest. The torrents sweep the land. Thunder shakes the world. Lightning rips through the sky. The clouds wring themselves dry. The wild sea batters our doors.
For most of the year, Delma thrives, its ports brimming with the wealth of distant lands. But when the rains come, everything halts. The island, so rich in its time, is stripped bare beneath the unrelenting downpour. Flooded, it must drown for a time so that it may live through the rest of the year. The downpour brings isolation, the edge of hunger. The ports empty. The ships cease their crossings. No nation sends its goods. And no Delman dares leave the island, swallowed by the black beast of the storm.
I do not wish to leave the temple, but to journey through the stone I carve—to seek refuge in it, to confide in it. It is the only way I know to give voice to the stirrings within me—to speak through this great rock, a silent witness that, in its long becoming, has seen what we never could. My thoughts are restless. The god now rivals the setting sun, and time presses upon me. I will set everything in order, readying myself to depart.
Nurta set the clay molds for seals upon the temple’s benches, alongside scattered stones. He gathered the cloth coverings and carefully arranged his tools, shielding them from the rain’s damp grasp. He longed for home—to ensure his family was safe, before the light surrendered to the dark.
Suddenly, murmurs—uncertain, hushed. Footsteps in the rain, nearing the temple. Who, in this drowning Delma, would brave such a storm to come here?
2
Hill
Overcome with fatigue, Nurta was ready to leave the temple, but the sound of ragged breathing at the temple door grew louder and pressed closer. A group of people entered, supporting a man whose weight sagged between them. It was Keela, the Lord of Delma, master of half the island. His family and servants were by his side, holding him up from beneath his arms to keep him on his feet.
The sick man’s pallid face was lined with sorrow. The torrent of rain had drenched him completely, soaking his face and clothes, despite the straw mats placed over his head. Walking ahead was Nina, his strong-willed mother, a woman whose word was law. She was the Lady of Delma, the High Priestess, the Ancient Matriarch, and many other titles.
Behind her, silent and composed, walked her son Keela’s wife, with their daughter Izmi at her side, widely known among the people. Izmi remained silent, her face taut with unease, her gaze hovering between worry and expectant dread for her father.
The servants laid their master on a flat stone bed in the heart of the temple, where he waited in silent pain for the young priest Nurta—the island’s last hope, the only one who might offer something new.
“What is hurting, O Lady of Delma?”
“He grew quiet today after his midday meal, thinking of his son—my missing grandson—whose ship was lost at sea a year ago. He spoke of him with sorrow, as he does every day. But today, sleep forsook him, and he collapsed in tears, calling out to a sudden affliction. His legs failed him, and so we brought him to you.”
“Let us stoke the fire and cover his body, shielding him from the cold.”
Nurta moved with weary limbs, masking his exhaustion with an air of purpose before those watching. He retrieved dry linens and thick coverings from the temple chests, spreading them beneath Keela to cushion his frail form. He wrapped him in warmth, placing sacred amulets beside his head—small sun[3] seals—whispering as he worked:
The Sun, the breath of life, is veiled behind the clouds, its light obscured as darkness falls. Call forth the light of the unseen Sun—not to fault the night, but to restore balance between healing warmth and shadowed rain on this sorrowful day that has cast Delma adrift from life.
Nurta contemplated invoking a secret ritual known only to priests. A bull would be offered, slaughtered, and buried before death could claim the sick man, so that the underworld’s beings would seize it in place of the man above.
This was their belief, not his, though he left his doubts unspoken.
The ritual served another purpose: it allowed Nurta to examine the animal’s liver and entrails, to decipher their hues and markings, hoping to uncover the nature of the man’s illness.
Nurta addressed Keela’s kin:
“The cold battles his flesh. Do not delay. Bring forth a bull for the offering. I must have its liver and innards, but above all, its bones must be buried before nightfall overtakes us. We offer this beast so that those below may claim it in Keela’s place—thus, they will spare him, and he will heal.”
Lady Nina commanded the servants to fetch a bull from the pen. Keela’s wife, reassured that hope remained for her husband, turned to Nurta.
‘Tell me about my son the seafarer, Nurta. Do you see any sign of him? How can I protect him from afar? The sea greets us each day with a new temper—a furious force. His absence has grieved his father deeply.’
Do not fear, my lady. He is a seasoned seaman, and his sturdy vessel will guard him. If the sea rages one day, it will surely calm the next.
‘Accept my offerings at the temple, to safeguard my son and my husband, Keela. What do you require for the rites.
‘Nothing, my lady, save for the crafting of statues to ward off evil.’
The lady nodded.
“And what do you require for that? “
“Only clay, of which we have ample supply. All that remains is the patience to shape it and carve the protective symbols.”
“Then tomorrow I shall send butter and dates to your home—not to the temple.”
Nurta’s gaze met Izmi’s, the daughter who listened intently to their exchange. He swallowed, noting her wet hair, made wavy by the rainfall. In the depths of her dark eyes, he glimpsed a quiet meekness and a fading kindness. He turned his attention to her kohl-lined eyelids and her face, caught between light and shade.
The heavens rumbled with thunder, and Izmi shivered as though the cold had seeped into her very bones. Others in the temple recoiled in fear, their eyes darting toward Nurta. He lowered his gaze and turned to the old lady.
“Do you hide a secret within your eyelids, my lady?”
She responded:
“I am a woman who dwells in the sea, attuned to its strength, capable of understanding its wisdom. But before my son’s illness, I faltered and exposed my vulnerability. Nurta, please, help him heal.”
“I am chanting the hymns of the sun,” Nurta said. “But I implore you—there is no time for grief or pity. We must act, so that the night may pass in peace, and all will be well. I will do everything I can to heal him. I await the bull.”
The harsh winter rains had pounded Delma for days without respite, and tonight, the sky felt strange. It was as though the storm had begun with no intention of ever stopping.
The embers glowed. Nurta took small cloths, dampened them with water, and held them near the flickering coals, warming them. He cleansed Keela’s body, starting from the chest, his voice rising in healing hymns as he prayed over him, gently wiping his skin. He massaged the veins that throbbed beneath the cloth, loosening them so that the blood would flow unhindered through its pathways.
Nurta—the rebel within—was seized by emotion, yet carried himself as a priest, never faltering.
[1] An island in the Arabian Gulf, affiliated to the UAE
[2] The name given to the Arabian Gulf 5,000 years ago in the Bronze Age, according to Sumerian maps
[3] The sun: the most important deity. At that time, it was regarded as male rather than female.
Reem Al-Kamali is a novelist, writer and researcher from the UAE. She is an editor of the cultural section of the Emirati Al-Bayan newspaper, and her published works include the novels The Sultanate of Hormuz (2013), which was awarded the Owais Prize for Creativity in 2015, The Statue of Dalma (2018) winner of the Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity, and Rose’s Diary (2021), which was shortlisted for the International Prize for Arabic Fiction and translated to English by Chip Rossetti. Reem al-Kamali studied history at university and is fascinated by archaeology, art, myths and culture in general.
Fatima ElKalay is a poet, translator, and editor whose literary career spans over three decades. A dedicated translator of Arabic literature, she is committed to bringing resplendent Arabic voices to the fore. Her translation of Mansoura Ez-Eldin’s Akhilat Al-Dhil (Shadow Spectres) was published in The Markaz Review, and her work in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction has been recognized internationally, including shortlistings for the London Independent Story Prize and the ArabLit Story Prize for translation. Alongside her translation work, Fatima has been Poetry Editor for multiple issues of Rowayat and recently stepped into the role of Managing Editor, shaping its literary vision. She is also a writer across genres, co-authoring Dessert for Three, a collaborative memoir-fiction collection, and crafting stories for young readers. With a deep literary sensibility and a passion for language, she continues to push narratives beyond borders and genres.