Earth and Ashes - Atiq Rahimi [6]
You have yet to face Judgment Day and you are already burning. Who needs the flames of Hell and a bonfire of tobacco?
You spit out your naswar. You take a piece of bread out of the bundle and share it with Yassin.
Your teeth aren’t able to chew the bread. No, they are. It’s the bread that is at fault. It is days old and hard. If there’s one thing that’s still all right, it’s your teeth. You have teeth, but no bread. If only you had the right to choose: teeth or bread. Would that be free will?
You take an apple from the bag and recommence your conversation with God. You request that He lower himself from the heavens. You untie and spread out the apple-blossom scarf as if to invite him to share your dry bread. You want to ask him what it is you have done to deserve such a destiny.
“The soldier says the Russians destroyed the village.”
Mirza Qadir comes between you and God. You bless him for asking you a question that prevents you from continuing your argument with God. You ask for divine mercy and respond to Mirza Qadir.
“Don’t ask, brother. They didn’t spare a single life … I don’t understand why God saw fit to punish us … The village was reduced to dust.”
“Why did they attack?”
“My friend, in this country, if you wonder why something happened, you have to start by making the dead talk. What do we understand? A while back a group of government troublemakers came to our village to enlist fighters for the Russians. Half the young people fled, the other half hid. On the pretext of searching the houses, the government soldiers wrecked and looted everything. In the middle of the night, men from the next village arrived and killed the government soldiers … The next morning they left with the men who had hidden to avoid serving under the red flag … Not even a day had passed before the Russians came and surrounded the village. I was at the mill. Suddenly, there was an explosion. I ran out. I saw fire and clouds of dust. I ran in the direction of my house. Why wasn’t I killed before I reached home? What wrong had I committed to be condemned to witness …”
Your throat is seized with sobs. Tears well in your eyes. No, they are not tears. Your grief is melting and overflowing. Let it flow!
Mirza Qadir, stunned into silence in the entrance of his shop, looks like a portrait, as if he has become part of the scene on the wall behind him.
“I ran toward the house through the dust and fire. Before I arrived, I saw Yassin’s mother. She was running, completely naked … She wasn’t shouting, she was laughing. She was running about like a madwoman. She had been in the bathhouse. A bomb had hit and destroyed it. Women were buried alive and died. But my daughter-in-law … If only I’d been blind and hadn’t seen her dishonored. I ran after her. She vanished into the smoke and flames. I came to the house, not knowing how I’d found it. There was nothing left … The house had become a grave. A grave for my wife, a grave for my other son, his wife, and their children …”
A sob constricts your throat. A tear drops from your eye. With the loose flap of your turban, you wipe it away:
“Only my grandson survived. But he doesn’t understand what I say. I feel like I’m speaking to a stone. It tears me to pieces … It’s not enough to talk, brother. If your words aren’t heard, those words turn to tears …”
You hug Yassin’s head against your body. The child raises his eyes and looks at you. He stands and calls out, “Grandfather’s crying. My uncle’s dead, Mummy’s gone … Qader’s dead, Grandma’s dead!”
Each time Yassin sees you crying, he repeats these words. Each time, he goes on to describe the bombing, miming it with his hands:
“The bomb was huge. It brought silence. The tanks took away people’s voices and left. They even took Grandfather’s voice away. Grandfather can’t talk anymore, he can’t tell me off …”
The child laughs and runs toward the guard’s hut.
You call to him. “Come back! Where are you going?”
It’s useless. Let him play.
Mirza