Blindness is perhaps the novel’s most complex symbol, representing the denial of or refusal to acknowledge suffering. As a central character who is literally blind, Afra’s lack of sight is the clearest manifestation of this symbol. The novel begins with Nuri telling readers that he fears her sightless eyes and imploring them to look at her, since he suspects she is disappearing. Afra is no longer the joyful woman she was before the death of her son, Sami. Her blindness erects a barrier between her and the world, representing an unwillingness to face her circumstances. The doctor she sees in England believes this blindness is her body’s way of coping with witnessing Sami’s death, shutting down the faculty of sight entirely.
Other characters experience figurative blindness. Lucy Fisher does not really see Nuri and Afra for who they are: human beings in need of help. To her, they are more of a job responsibility. Similarly, the immigration officers do not look directly at Nuri during his interview, implying a willful refusal to witness his suffering lest it complicate their jobs. Nuri himself frequently expresses a wish to forget what he knows and unsee the things he has seen; in a world containing so much suffering, he thinks, blindness might be preferable. Throughout most of the novel, Nuri is unaware of the particular blindness that leads him to create Mohammed, an imaginary stand-in for his deceased son, Sami, whose death he cannot face. This is yet another figurative blindness, as the invention of Mohammed keeps Nuri from really looking at his own grief. The novel centers on Nuri confronting this blindness at last, seeing his trauma fully, and beginning the process of healing. Finally, Afra’s sight begins to return near the novel’s end, suggesting that she, too, is starting to accept her new post-traumatic reality.
Blindness Quotes in The Beekeeper of Aleppo
I am scared of my wife’s eyes. She can’t see out and no one can see in. Look, they are like stones, gray stones, sea stones. […] Look at the folds of her stomach, the color of desert honey, darker in the creases, and the fine, fine silver lines on the skin of her breasts, and the tips of her fingers with the tiny cuts, where the ridges and valley patterns were once stained with blue or yellow or red paint. Her laughter was gold once, you would have seen as well as heard it. Look at her, because I think she is disappearing.
“We have to go, Afra,” I said.
“I’ve already told you. No.”
“If we stay—”
“If we stay, we’ll die,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes were open and blank now.
“You’re waiting for a bomb to hit us. If you want it to happen, it will never happen.”
“Then I’ll stop waiting. I won’t leave him.”
“What happened to her?” he said to me, and there was an unmistakable note of curiosity in his voice. I could suddenly imagine him collecting horror stories—real-life tales of loss and destruction. His glasses were fixed on me now.
“A bomb,” I said.
“You are lost in the darkness, Nuri,” she says. “It is a fact. You’ve gotten completely lost somewhere in the dark.”
I look at her eyes, so full of fear and questions and longing, and I had thought it was she who was lost, that Afra was the one stuck in the dark places of her mind. But I can see how present she is, how much she is trying to reach me.
“You’re lost in a different world. You’re not here at all. I don’t know you anymore.”
I don’t say anything.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
So I close my eyes.
“Can you see the bees, Nuri? Try to see them in your mind. Hundreds and thousands of them in the sunlight, on the flowers, the hives, and the honeycomb. Can you see it?”
[…]
I don’t reply.
“You think it’s me who can’t see,” she says.