“It’s been ten years,” I whispered to myself.
I look around cautiously to make sure no one else is present. Silence. Stillness. Then I drop to my knees and begin examining the graves.
“Can I help you?” a voice murmured from a distance.
“Get away from me!” I yelled out of sheer terror.
“I’m sorry. I-”
“Get away!” I growled.
“I’m not a visitor, I work here,” he responded.
My body screamed at itself to run away, to release the adrenaline that kept coming in regardless of my inability to use it. Rows of tombstones stretched from right to left, front to behind, like the land where the living meet the dead. Most, however, were overgrown and disordered.
“I’m looking for Abbad Elazar,” I declare, my eyes refusing to meet his.
“He is there,” he muttered, pointing to the grave containing no headstones or plaques.
I make my way towards there, casting my eyes on the freshly dug soil. “How could you bear burying him? Knowing what he did?” I asked, my head speaking to the dusty ground.
“I don’t think about they do,” the man explained. “I think of them as people. People who were full of hope.”
My knuckles turned white from clenching my fists, and I gritted my teeth to remain silent. Rage pulsed through my veins, and when the man even tapped his finger on my shoulder, I swung around and snapped.
“Someone who blows up a market is not full of hope!” I hissed. “The victims have parents, too. Parents who loved them, who raised them to be good people!” I said, pointing to the grave at my side.
“Your child. Was he a victim?” the worker whispered.
“She. Andrea. She was eleven. I sent her to the market to get some spices. Cinnamon, salt…” My eyes welled up, water pooling in my eyes, tears streaming down my cheek. “Ever since she died, I’ve been so angry. At my husband, my children. The world.” I blurted. “Do you have children?”
“No,” he responded.
“To lose them is the worst thing on earth. I thought that maybe if I came, if I saw the grave, it might make a difference,” I cried.
“Has it?” he asked hopefully, his head lifting upwards for the first time.
“No,” I sighed. “She’s still gone.”
I sat there, fatigue engraved on my worn face. All that remained was my shadow against the barren graveyard, so I stood up and dusted off my knees. I wiped off my last streaming tears, but the guilt remained sitting on my chest. In hopes to make amends with the worker, I proceeded to invite him for tea.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” he answered.
“My husband will be there, of course. And my family,” I rambled to the Arab man, sharing a smile for the first time.
“No, you wouldn’t want me,” he responded more seriously. “If you knew why I’m here. Why I do this,” he continued.
“Because you bury the people who deserve to be buried,” I recounted, confused and irritated.
“No,” said the man. “Because my son deserves to be buried.”
“You said you didn’t have any children,” I roared, slowly backing away.
“I don’t,” the man said. “Not since that day, ten years ago.”
I latched onto the thought, hoping what he had told me was really only in my head. That this reality was just a dream. Holding my breath, I wheezed uncontrollably, glancing at the grave. Oblivious, I had become oblivious. Everything was drowning and I couldn’t swim. I thought I knew how to swim. I used to believe I called the direction in which my life would go.
“No one would bury him. They wanted him to rot,” the man yelped. “But I raised him. Well. And even after what he did, I still love him. So now, I bury the bombers for their parents. For the ones who can’t allow themselves to acknowledge, to forgive…”
I just sat reliving the imagery of my daughter being taken away from me once again, her small hands leaving mine before her trip to the market. My breathing; erratic, deep, then shallow. I tried to fight. I tried to fight the feeling as my body writhed to be free or shut down altogether. Sweat trickled down my neck, and I sat in exhaust, lifeless.
“So, would you still like to invite me for tea?” he lamented, ashamed under his breath.
For the first time, my anger begins to drain from my eyes. Andrea was out of sight, and I was out of mind.
“Yes,” I assured him.
Bronstein, Paula. Afghanistan, October, 2009. Afghanistan, Oct. 2009.
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