here was an uneasy feeling among the group that formed on the
outskirts of town. Desperation in the eyes of some gave hope
to the hearts of others and they clung together as if no other
safety had ever existed. Soldiers searched their tents; moving
swiftly in and out. “Men up, men up” The Soldiers
shouted as they entered the makeshift homes.
The women screamed and spat on the floors as their husbands
walked slowly from their tents. The men stood in line along the
dusty path staring at machine gun barrels and acting unafraid.
After the search found nothing, the soldiers were ordered to
regroup and take with them any man able-bodied enough to cause
trouble.
“Move along, move along.” A loud speaker clicked
off, but the group was slow to disperse as most of them had already
settled in. Fire ditches were dug from the desert floor and long
poles hung soup pots just above the pit. Thin tunnels carved
in the ground allowed air to feed the fire.
Along the road, the soldiers walked in a long single file. A
little boy stepped along side them, trying to mimic their march.
One of the soldiers moved out of the line to show him how to
lift his feet properly and get a good stomp. Malek grinned. He
and his older brother, Salom, were given the task of finding
anything that could burn. Their mother hoped it would keep them
busy and away from danger. The soldier reached into his jacket
pocket and pulled out a plastic straw.
“Do you know how to shoot spit balls?” He asked. “First
thing you gotta do is wet the paper.” Malek stared up at
him with bright, round eyes. The man knelt on one knee and whispered, “You
don’t understand a word I say. Do you?”
Malek giggled.
The heat was unbearable as the soldier put the tiny paper ball
into his mouth and, with wild lip movements, got it good and
wet. This time Malek laughed out loud; the sound put the man
in mind of his own son and he forgot the long miles between them.
He no longer wanted to move their settlement up the road or set
up perimeters to monitor traffic. He wanted only to make the
boy laugh; to hear the clear laughter and pretend it was of his
own blood, in his own land.
“Now,” said the soldier with renewed excitement.
Then he swiftly blew through the straw and the ball spun tightly
past Malek’s head.
“You’re dead,” the soldier called out.
Malek rolled back on his heels and bounced as if he were hit.
Then he crumbled to the ground, holding his stomach in a fit
of laughter.
“You try,” the soldier told him, sliding his helmet
onto the boy’s tiny head and handing him the straw.
His first shot crashed into Salom’s ear. “You’re
dead,” Malek called. He was a natural.
Malek launched two more balls before their mother came quickly
from the crowd and knocked the helmet off his head. The soldier
took the helmet from the dusty floor and told the woman, “Move
along, Move along.” Mother and child disappeared into the
crowd, with Malek holding to the straw like a samurai would hold
his sword.
alek,” the older boy screamed to his brother,
ducking instinctively from a wad of spit covered paper. Sweat
poured off of Salom’s head as he whipped it back to find
Malek giggling and stuffing the straw into his belt loop. They
laughed and walked over a sandy ridge; then came upon some mangled
desks, scattered around a blackened crater. A green chalk board
lay broken among the pages of old text books. The roof of the
class room was in pieces among the desks and no longer blocked
the ravishing midday-sun. Three of four walls crumbled each time
Salom crashed his foot through one of the desks. He was trying
to get a piece of wood small enough to carry back and show the
older men of the group. Later he would lead them up the ridge
to fetch the firewood. Malek spit two more wads past his brother’s
head. The spitballs crashed into the chalk board and stuck there. “You’re
dead, Salom. You’re dead.”
Their group had become so accustomed to roaming and being pushed
from one settlement to another that they were very good at it.
It appeared to the two boys, who now made their way over the
ridge, that life had always been like this; that their people
were a nomadic people, when in truth they had lived on this land
for a thousand years.
Over the loud speaker came another call. The voice rang out
clearly, “Move along, move along.” The speaker clanked
shut and there was silence again.
The soldier prepared a shell and typed out the coordinates.
He knew it was a warning shot, but still his hands quivered.
When the order came down, he steadied himself and let it go.
It would be well out past the camp, just before the ridge.
Malek was hysterical with laughter again. He had caught Salom
in the eye and was laughing so hard he could no longer utter “you’re
dead”. Salom walked down off the ridge with a slat of wood
tucked tightly under his arm. It was a good find. The lid of
his eye swelled with spit and his heart thumped with pride. He
could just hear the whine of the shell speeding toward earth.
Though it was not a direct hit, the group could not run fast
enough or wail loud enough to change anything. Salom stepped
cautiously back towards his little brother and the thing he noticed
was that Malek had wet himself. There was no shame in his face,
but no smile on his lips, and no light to his eyes. Salom stood
perfectly still, afraid that moving would make it true; then
the adults rushed past him and it was true. A man lifted Malek
from the floor and the boy’s arms went limp as if they
were reaching for the ground, to where the soldier’s straw
had fallen. The man’s face was twisted in anger so deep
and dark that no sound could escape it. There were no words.
As Salom stared out from atop the sandy cliff, he found it hard
to imagine a thousand years had gone into making the barren landscape
he found all around him. The sand and dust swirling through broken
buildings and misplaced people seemed to insist that they had
just gotten there.
[END]
© 2005 Joseph P. Thayer - Contributor's
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