Dark World

 

 Dark World

 By

 Sharique A Sheikh

 

 

Dedicated to Ana

  

I have to go across the border.

It is not safe there. Don't go. Troops are bombing day in day out.

But I have to save her life.

You will not return alive. Please get back.

He turned back and said. Thank you.

She is just a Facebook friend. Why are you putting your life in danger?

Thank you, Mama.

My son, how would you find her? If you do not know, she is dead or alive or where does she live, now?

He did not answer and kept walking forward.

 

 

Syria

 

There was no sign of any human in the ghost-silenced town. The wind smelled like burning woods and the leafless singed trees towered like skyscrapers beside the road in a row. The smoke was floating in the dark sky. The first time in town, he removed his mask and saw the burnt and rusted cars, parked in the oil-spilled garage yard. He turned his head all around in slow motion and saw between two exploded buses, the vultures, and the murder of crows descending, hovering, and savoring the pile of dead human bodies while some flew up and sat back away from the corpses when a hyena appeared to feast on remains. He stayed there for a while, and strolled forward through the flying ashes in the wind and reached into a ruined house where noises of crows were approaching from a tree before he kicked the door hard and it opened and he entered the room. Opposite by the wall, there was a refrigerator; he opened it and picked up some expired coke and dried food and kept it all in his medieval cloth haversack then he turned to the balcony. On the roofless wall, he saw a note. I stashed the money my whole life but I am not sure, I will be alive in the next minute, he read sauntering forward and stopped before the corner of a balcony: contemplated a queue of ants, insects, and a perfect colony of worms in the flies buzzing rotting corpse. He knelt there down and hid the body under a plastic tarpaulin, and stood up. In a collapsed wall, he saw a child's hand into the debris; he dragged him out and studied his wristwatch in his hand. It was his watch; he gifted her. It was her house, he figured out and he hunted for her in every mound of bricks but she was nowhere. Finally, he buried them all and knelt beside their graves, and looked at the sky with his teary eyes. Almighty, let this pain feel to those who took these innocents’ life, he said in his audible voice, and stood up and saw another note on the wall, written with the white chalk. Nothing was mine; her father had written it, he reckoned because the chalk was beside his hand. He nodded and he picked up a piece of brick and scribbled down his note uttering the word with his hoarse voice. Yes, everything owned by our future.

 

      He left that house and walked hours counting praying beads in the deserted path. He reached a vast sea where he performed ablution on a rock at the seashore and prayed Salah. His tired body after a long journey felt revived performing every activity of prayer in the gentle touch of breeze and splash of waves. When he completed his Salah and raised his hands towards the sky to pray: the sun setting behind the hills flickered on him through the leaves of palm trees. 

    After a while, he moved away from there and reached into a small forest of palm trees. The day had turned into night. An old man with a lantern and with a stick passed by him when he sat against a tree putting his head on his knee. Who are you? yelled the old man.

I’m a passer-by. You won’t know me, he said in his tired voice. Do you have water?

Yes, I have. But you have to come with me.

Okay, sir.

The old man took him to his small house and gave him water.

He put his dirty haversack down and held the bottle in hand.

What are you doing here? the old man asked when he was drinking.

He replied, staring at the rock-stacked wall of his house. I’m looking for a lost friend.

A lost friend?

Yes, a lost girlfriend.

Where did you see her last time?

I didn’t see her, yet.

You didn’t see her, yet! What are you talking about?

That is the thing, I’m talking about.

How would you recognize her if you meet?

If I can come here, across the border, then to recognize her is not a big deal, sir.

Are you an Israeli?

Yessir. How did you know?

It is your accent.

Where was she from?

Back from the town.

Where nothing exists but the ruined houses?

Yessir.

Mr. Israeli, keep one thing in mind if you want to live happy in life. Love yourself and don't hurt others.

He thought for a moment and replied. Yessir.

Good.

Do you know where all the people went from that town?

Yes, I know. But before I tell you everything, I have to repair your feet to make you strong enough for a long journey to cross the border.

Okay, sir, he replied, glancing at the wall and reading the note. This world needs a leader like Barack Obama to keep our land safe.  

Who wrote this? He asked the old man.

My brother before he died in the airstrike.

He nodded but said nothing.

The old man treated his feet and gave him dinner. He ate and slept. At dusk, he got up, offered prayers, and went to the seashore as the old man had instructed him. He took a boat and drove to an anonymous land. It was a clear day. His head in white kufis, praying Salah on a boat in the vast deep-sea, could be visible from the fighter jet in the blue sky. But he was safe. Suddenly, the heavy wind blew and bobbed the boat. It was a heavy storm. He saw. He took the row in hand and paddled against the waves and against the wind; his muscles toughened and sometimes breath stopped but he kept going forward to the destination. In the night, the dark cloud rained and he slept fetal under the boat trembling and listening to the rainfall. 

After weeks, he had nothing except the freshwater he had stored in the rain. But it was not enough to keep him alive. His lean and weak body in the boat floating with the wind, got ashore. Two fishermen found him as a breathing thing with his inscribed message on the boat. I’m sorry, the love of my life, I couldn’t reach you. May God protect you! Perhaps, it was his last writings, they were reading. They led him to the refugee camp according to his note. There the crowd gathered around him, few of them wanted to know who he was but nobody knew him save a girl who was praying for his life. Hours later, his eyes opened and he saw a girl was caressing his forehead in her lap. Ifra! He mumbled.

She didn't speak nor nodded but her face filled with a sudden triumph with trickling tears down from her cheeks.

Are you..If..Ifra, my Ifra?

She cupped his face and replied kissing his quivering lips. Yes, Ifra. I’m Ifra, your Ifra.

 

End

 Author’s Note

 Thank you for reading this story. Please like my FB page (https://m.facebook.*om/abia.sharique/?ref=bookmarks) and give your suggestions and thoughts and feedback there about this story.