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Dogma

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Dogma

07.01.06 (7:32 pm) [edit]

When it seemed safe, or at least light enough to see, the women emerged slowly from the huddles of their homes and temporary shelters in search of their men. They found what remained – scattered in the streets, behind barricades, under cars and trees, stones still clutched in tightly clamped fists.

Abra had watched her mother and the others do what needed to be done. They’d cut great wounds into the already scarred earth. They’d gathered what they could of their fathers, husbands, brothers and sons. They’d clung to each other for strength and when one of the women fell – consumed by the sea that threatened each of them – another took her place; the wails of the fallen carried gently away on the smoke-filled wind. Finally, when night came at last and the village grew silent, the women had returned to their homes to wash their hands, to feed their children and to bury their faces in wet pillows.

Days and days passed and soon the once unmistakable mounds in the earth began to settle. Some women had managed to place small markers of wood or stone on the spots where the ground had swallowed the thing that had been taken from them, but many had not, and soon grass and reeds began to grow over those places – changing the disfigured landscape into something more benign, but no less painful. Still, they all lowered their heads and hushed their voices when passing that spot on their way to the river or the market. And sometimes mothers and grandmothers would chastise young children for calling out to one another or for playing games in the grass, calling that field a “holy place.” Abra bowed her head too and lowered her voice, but she could see nothing holy about what had happened there.

One night as she lay in her bed, Abra heard her mother’s voice in the other room. When she stepped, barefooted into the archway, none of the women sitting around the fire noticed her there. Her mother was rocking back and forth, her head in her hands:

“I couldn’t find them.” She repeated through great, heaving sighs. “I couldn’t find them.”

The other women told their own stories of struggling to remember the places where they had buried the person they loved. They could remember placing flowers on his chest. They could remember putting a photograph in his pocket. They could remember seeing the last bit of his hands being covered with dirt. But they could no longer find him among the grass and reeds and other living things that flourished in the soil now rich with decay. An older woman in the corner began to tell a fable that Abra had heard many times before about the changing seasons and life springing from death. But as she looked at her mother’s shoulders slump, the words held no meaning.

That night, Abra slipped out into the darkness and walked the blackened path to the field where she had watched her mother bury her father, her brother and an uncle – a small satchel clutched in her hand. Like her mother, she could no longer remember exactly where they were buried, so she walked with her eyes closed until the earth felt right beneath her. Then she knelt spreading the contents of her bag in the cool grass. She took the two pieces of wood and laid them in front of her – her black eyes burned in the darkness. Her hands worked quickly as she hammered them together into the symbol she’d seen so many times. (It was sometimes stamped on the side of the flyers that fell from the sky along with pallets of grain and meal. It was sometimes carved in the air by the priest who said he had come to their village to teach the children to read and to dig an irrigation system, but who often seemed more interested in saving than in helping them. And it was sometimes painted on the helmets of the men who carried guns and stopped to give the children sweets or invade their homes at night in search of others who, like her father, had tried to protect the life they’d always known). When she was finished, she raised the makeshift cross into the air and with a loud guttural cry, plunged the thing into the earth.

Unlike those who had left their own crude markers, now hidden in the tall grass, Abra didn’t care if people remembered where her father, her brother, her uncle or all the others were buried. She only wanted them to remember why.

posted by: Cutter (reply)
post date: 07.04.06 (2:52 am)

Wow. This incredibly moving.

I think that what I like the best about it is that although it can be seen as just the personal experience of one person, in truth, it speaks for the experiences of millions more, in many places and throughout history.

I admire your ability to tell a story... and in it, make the most profound of statements.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to appreciate your work and your insights.

posted by: Cutter (reply)
post date: 07.04.06 (2:56 am)

p.s. - sorry about my problem with dropping words. Please don't see it as a lack of interest or a relection of my level of seriousness. I try really hard to post comments that are honest, and worthy of being on the same page with what you write. I don't post comments lightly. I regret that sometimes it seems that way.

posted by: fractalmom (reply)
post date: 07.04.06 (4:01 am)

takes me right into iraq. thank you.

posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 07.04.06 (7:31 am)

Reply to: Cutter

Cutter,

I actually wrote this piece quite some time ago in response to one of Andrew's drawings, (big surprise, huh?) but never posted it here. Lately, I've been thinking about it and I have to admit that your recent posts and some of the conversations that grew out of your thoughts, in part at least, made me want to post it. So... I guess, I owe you a bit of thanks. :)

"I try really hard to post comments that are honest, and worthy of being on the same page with what you write."

This may very well be one of the most flattering things that anyone has ever said to me or about my writing. I'm not certain I truly deserve your kindness, but I continue to be grateful for any time you choose to spend with me. Your thoughts are extremely valuable to me. Thank you, Cutter.

j

posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 07.04.06 (7:32 am)

Reply to: fractalmom

Thank you for your thoughts, Dawn, and for continuing to stop by and read, and then chat a little.

j

posted by: Lindy (reply)
post date: 07.05.06 (7:45 am)

I'm glad Abra came for a visit here. She's as much alive now as she was when first she appeared on Andrew's doorstep. She still raises the hair on the back of my neck.

It's difficult to tell which of you is the author and which is the illustrator.

posted by: hangman (reply)
post date: 07.06.06 (11:42 am)

What is truly sad is that this story could have and still can take place in so many locations around the world. Thank you again for a wonderful story that's both moving and thought provoking.

posted by: JanieD (reply)
post date: 07.11.06 (10:19 am)

This is touching. Thanks for posting.

posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 07.11.06 (4:19 pm)

Reply to: Lindy

*smile*

I remember when she was born and all the discussion that followed. The time just felt right to move her over here for a bit. Thank you for always leaving me such kind thoughts. They continue to be terribly valuable to me.

j

posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 07.11.06 (4:22 pm)

Reply to: hangman

You come here. You read. Then you leave your thoughts... and I'm very grateful. Thank you.

j

posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 07.11.06 (4:22 pm)

Reply to: JanieD

Thank you for your kind words.

j

posted by: Cutter (reply)
post date: 09.02.06 (9:32 am)

more?

posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 09.04.06 (2:17 pm)

Reply to: Cutter

I hope so, Cutter.

*smile*

posted by: Lindy (reply)
post date: 10.14.06 (5:33 am)

*skips in, looks around, sighs*

I do that a lot, but when I wander back out, I'm just glad it's still here, along with your swinging mailbox. :) Take cares, J.

posted by: akelso (reply)
post date: 12.02.06 (7:32 am)

Abra's story (in this post) has caught my attention more than once. Until this moment, her being has lost hold of me with my reflexive recoiling inward to hold tight to some resonance - always before I could get through the whole piece.

Now, Abra has my fullness of appreciation and solidarity. I admire her budding feminine strength in the face of horror. This may be a strain of hope for the human race!

Thanks Juniper for generating these pieces. Their impact on my spirit at least, is enormous. - ak

posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 12.02.06 (8:07 am)

*smile*

This came, as so many of my scribbles do, as a result of a drawing from a place that we both know well. I can point you to the specific drawing you if you wish, as tblog will not allow me to leave links in comments. (grrrrrrrrrr!)

Anyway... despite the date that it appeared here, Abra represents one of my very first forays into the world of fiction; thus she holds a special place in my heart.

Thank you for looking and thinking and chatting a bit. I cannot overstress the importance of your thoughts.

j