He walked slowly before me along a path between devastation and ruin. Barefoot, dressed in simple robes long dark hair falling over shoulders covered in dust the colour of the rubble. Every detail of the twisted wire, blood-soaked cloth and curtains flapping in misshapen windows were observed in sorrow. Remnants of lives scattered, clothing, toys and the games children played lay where they were left by people fleeing death delivered by bombs, tanks and hunger. The people took all they could carry, the weight of the old, the young, the injured. Silent, so silent, as if the land itself was so traumatised that there were no words, not even the wind or birds could find a place within to express the devastation.
The weight of silence drew me closer to him. He sat down wearily upon a large broken stone that had once been part of a family’s home. He looked around and saw me standing a few feet away. The ruins held stories, and this stranger’s invitation beckoned me into his world. We sat in shared grief that felt it had no end.
Teardrops falling onto the rubble he said, “They wrote the words that gave them this land and claimed they were my father’s promise. Twisted broken words justifying murder. Words of love lost amongst hate and fear. He sent me to teach them, but they would not listen to words that challenged their greed. Now they use my words to twist the prism of love to suit their ambitions”.
I followed his gaze toward the ocean in the distance and saw him playing as a child, carefree in a landscape free of war. He and his ancestors were part of this devastated landscape working the land and the sea shared with people from many lands. Without fences, soldiers, bombs. The silence was broken by an aeroplane in the distance dropping its tools of death.
I touched his knee and looked into his eyes as he turned to look at me. ‘I’m so sorry’. ‘Even now they do not understand,’ he replied. ‘They prefer to wage war regardless of the cost as they have done for thousands of years, across countless wars, believing it is my father’s will’.
His words stay in my dreams, words that transcend time and place, resonating across generations, a plea for compassion and peace. He turned and pulled a golden coloured poppy from the rubble, a fragile symbol of hope amidst chaos.
Janine Hartley 