SEPULTURE

by Sadia Virk

             It was another ordinary day in Palestine...

             Ahmed Mehdi ate quickly, trying not to meet the gaze of his mother.  Even without looking at her, he knew that her eyes would be red from crying all night long.  The silence in the small kitchen hung around them like a heavy cloak, bearing down upon their bodies.  If one concentrated hard enough, the distant sounds of gunshots could almost be heard in the fields of the Gaza Strip.  But neither Ahmed nor his grieving mother needed to concentrate to hear these gunshots or the wailing cries of the dying.  For in their hearts raged a battle, much fiercer than the one unfolding outside.

            The memory of the previous night still tore through Ahmed’s heart like a double-edged razor.  If he closed his eyes, he could see his mother fall to her knees as her piercing scream filled the house.  He could still hear the voice of the radio broadcaster, as she read off the names of the Palestinians who were slain that day as they made their way home from the mosque.  Her voice was like a merciless grip around their hearts; with each name it squeezed harder and harder.  With their eyes clenched shut and their hearts ablaze with prayers, they braced themselves for the inevitable.  Over and over again, his brother’s name echoed loudly through his head, with a throbbing vibration.  Even in his restless slumber where he had sought refuge, he found no escape from his pain.

            It took all of Ahmed’s willpower now, to keep from crying.  His elder brother was dead.  His father had yet to return from the business trip that had taken him out of the city.  Weeks had passed and still the Mehdis had heard nothing from him.  But they refused to believe that he too, like so many others was never coming home.  Yet despite all that had happened, the atrocious inhumanity continued outside.  The world was not going to stop and grieve for the woes of this family.

            Silently kissing his mother good-bye, Ahmed made his way out the house.  He did not need to look back to know that his mother was now clutching her heart, as sobs racked her body.  Ahmed wiped away his own tears, for he understood the feeling of helplessness that his mother was undergoing.  He knew that she would want nothing more than for him to stay home with her, where she could protect him from the evil that had engulfed their world.  But Ahmed could not bring himself to stay home -not even for his mother.  He would give his own life up, but he would not let the murder of his brother go unavenged.

            Ahmed fingered the chunks of concrete in his hands.  He remembered the days not too long ago, when he had watched his father build their home with his own hands.  He fondly recalled how he had played with his brother amid the bricks and rocks, building up tall towers and then knocking them down.  Just like those towers, so many of Ahmed’s dreams had now been destroyed; shattered as is though they were made up of nothing more than fragile glass.  It was hard to believe that what he had once held as a plaything, he now gripped tightly in his hands as a weapon.

             The utter confusion in the battlefield was anarchic.  From where he stood, Ahmed could see the scenes of this horrible drama unfold.   Men, women and even children, all bearing the black and white kuffiyeh, were spaced out on the field, like helpless pawns in a hopeless game of chess.  Ahmed stood transfixed, unaware of the tears that now streamed down his face in rivulets.  He saw young children around him; some of them no more than 13, crouched down behind makeshift forts as they hurled rocks, stones and pieces of concrete with their slingshots at the distant enemy.  Although he could not see the soldiers from where he stood, he could see the bullets they were rapidly firing explode into the ground, causing dust and dirt to rise up amongst them.  The sounds of their automatic weapons was stunning, it was almost loud enough to cover the cries and screams of the stone throwers.  Almost, but not quite.  The sound of death was enough to shatter anyone’s eardrums, as well as their hearts.  Ahmed stood there, frozen, as he faced all that was happening around him, trying to understand.

            Where does this all stop, he wondered.  When would they all awaken from this monstrosity?  Surely these people realized, as did Ahmed, that their mock weapons were useless.  After all, what harm could a handful of stones possibly do to a mass of heavily armed, trained soldiers?  The weapons of the enemy were strong, but the Palestinians’ anger was stronger.  They had all come there with their hearts brimming with grief, vexation and a burning fury.  They had come to fight for their dead mothers and fathers.  They had come to battle the enemy that had killed their brothers and sisters.  They had come to avenge the deaths of their children.  They had come because there was no one else who would fight this ferocious war for them.  They knew their weapons were useless, but what other choice did they have?

            The world had turned their backs on them.  The olive branch had been snatched away from their hands.  These were people who had suffered horror that no man should ever have to endure.  People who had lost their loved ones, who had seen their homes be demolished right before their very eyes and had been unable to stop it.  People who went to bed at night with the dying cries of their babies ringing through their heads.  They would never again see their children laugh or play.  Their children would never experience the beauty of a setting sun or the magical feeling of a rainbow.  Their children had been murdered for a crime they could not even begin to comprehend.  Their innocence had been shattered because of what they were.  Palestinian.

            The world did not understand their anger.  But how could they? How could anyone possibly understand unless they had suffered the same fate as these people; seen what they had seen, heard what they had heard.  These people were blamed for the riots that had plagued the streets of Palestine.  The media pointed fingers at them, stating it was their fault -their fault that people were dying, their fault that innocent lives were being destroyed.  And the world believed the media.  After all, newspapers never lie.

            So it must be true.  It was a mother’s fault that her baby was snatched away from her arms as she made her way home from the doctor.  Why wasn’t she home instead of out on the streets?  You can’t blame the soldiers, it’s not their fault that they smashed the head of this crying infant against the stone walls.  They had no choice, the baby was Palestinian.

            As Ahmed stood there amid everything, all these thoughts and emotions flooded his mind.  What is right?  What is wrong?  He wished his mother was there so he could find shelter in the comfort of her arms.  He was after all, just a child.  Why should he be expected to fight a war he did not even understand.  The whole world was full of activists who cried for human rights, an end to racism and equality for all mankind -regardless of their nationality or religion.  Where were these people now?  Why was no one helping them?  A million prayers raced through Ahmed’s heart.  He prayed that the coming generations of children would know the true meaning of peace.  He prayed that it would not take the death of another innocent child before a stop was put to this monstrosity.  He prayed that the world would close their eyes, and try to see with their hearts.

            His eyes closed in devotion, his hands up in prayer, Ahmed was just vaguely aware of what was happening around him.  Ahmed opened his eyes to find that the army was advancing.  The field was strewn with the bodies of dead and injured civilians.  Bullets cut through the air all around them.  The stark color of blood stood out grotesquely against the dull, brown ground.  The seconds seemed to stretch into an eternity.  Within him, Ahmed’s heart boomed with uncontrollable rage.

            The last thing Ahmed thought of was his mother.  He thought of her warm and loving smile and all the pain she had suffered through out her life.  His heart was aglow with his love for her, as he stepped into the field.  Before he even had a chance to raise his hands, bullets were pumped into him.  Convulsions racked his body as he jerked upwards, his hands still clutching the stones.  He was dead before he hit the ground, his eyes still open, brimming with unanswered questions.

            In the distance, a young girl sat.  She had watched Ahmed fall.  She watched as others fell around him.  She was blinded by tears as she saw the blood seep through the fabric of their clothes.  Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers... suddenly she could take it no more and fled home.

            Just like another young boy before her, she searched within her for explanations, desperately wanting to comprehend.  She asked herself questions to which she knew not the answers.  When the early rays of sunlight streamed through her bedroom window, she was still awake.  Ready and alert.

            Silently she made her way out of her house.  The warm sun fell upon her back, as she made her way towards the battlefield.  In her back pocket, she felt the bulge of her brother’s sling shot.  Her eyes raked the ground, searching for stones.  Her heart bade a silent farewell to the family she had left behind.

             It was another ordinary day in Palestine…