My fingers dance across my heritage. My grandmother’s trunk has been through so much. It’s journey across Iran, Lebanon, Israel, England, and America had been nothing short of a miracle. I return to the present as a slew of colors greet my eye. I carefully begin unpacking everything, exaggerating my gentleness so that nothing will break.
I reach for a vase and the cold smoothness makes me smile. There are very few cracks, a tribute to my grandmother’s carefulness. The next object, a dusty rug. I pull it out and rub it, sending dust flying through the air. I pause for a moment, as the tiny grains float through the slant of sunlight coming in through the high window. I remember one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings. Her cracked voice reverberates through my mind. “Remember, my shainie maidele [beautiful girl, in Yiddish], remember: we were all made of dust, and one day we shall return to it. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. All of our differences are simply imagined; we are all made of the same thing. This is the order of the world.”
The sun reaches its zenith; the heat and light burn against my bare back.I know that I will be pink before long. I begin to replace the objects. I reach the rug, and something strikes me. A tag reads “Flying Carpet Company.” I smile for a moment, as fairytales come rushing back. Caught up in the moment, I unlatch the windows and sit down.
And I fly!
****
The wind runs through my hair, as I leave the few clouds far, far behind and hold on for dear life. How did this happen? My mind races back to my childhood. My mother tells me that there are no such things as dragons and knights in shining armor and princesses. She dies four months later in a freak sky diving accident.
My grandmother reads me the story of Aladdin and his magic genie and flying carpet. It is past my bedtime. I go downstairs for a glass of water and stumble across my grandmother gazing at the picture of the handsome prince. Tears fill her eyes and mine, as the magic carpet begins to come down to land.
The first thing that strikes me is the immense heat. The second is the wailing, the infinite amount of pain. A man walks by, leading a camel. I quickly roll the rug up. “Where am I?” I ask in Arabic, a language that I learned from my now-dead Lebanese grandfather.
The man looks at me, puzzled. “You are in Darfur, lady. You might be wanting to go now…they are coming.…” The man picks up his pace and strides off, and my mind is left with questions. Who are they, and why should I fear them? I begin to walk in the direction of the wailing.
A woman clutches her dead baby. I kneel and say, “Who did this to you, ma’am?”
She gulps several times. “The…the soldiers. They killed my baby. They stole my life from me.” All is silent for a moment, like the ocean before a wave. The lady looks at her baby and erupts. “WHY?” she yells, beating her hands upon her face and tearing out her hair. “WHY?”
I continue on, afraid to face the all-consuming blackness that the woman is forced to prematurely face. I meet a man prostrate on the ground, vast weeps and screams finding their way out of his mouth only to be muted by the sand. I kneel down once again. “What is wrong?” I ask him.
The man faces me, his black eyes filled with pain.”They stole my cattle. They took my only son.” Knowing that no consolation on my part could make him feel any better, he heaves himself off the ground and walks away, his shoulders shaking.
There is a tent in the distance. A man in a soldier’s uniform walks put, zipping up his pants. A woman cries softly in the tent. I clench my teeth in pure hatred. This is them. This is the one who killed the woman’s baby. What harm did the child ever do? What gain was there in slaughtering an infant? This is the one who took the man’s cattle and took his son. But why? Why these senseless acts of irrational hatred?
“Who are you?” the man asks, his voice cultured and sophisticated.
I take a moment before answering. “I am a human being, so much more than you shall ever be. What brought you to this madness?”
The man scoffs. “You are too young to understand the complex workings of the government.” The woman’s cries get louder. “SHUT UP!” he yells and throws his knife inside the tent. A deafening thud and a few weak whimpers follow before they cease completely.
I look at the man one last time. “Complex indeed.”
I run away, for I have seen enough.
“Carpet, take me home.”
The sun still shines, mocking my pain. What type of insanity could bring about these acts of madness? After all, we are…we are all made out of the same thing. Ashes to ashes.
And dust…to dust.
