like a bed-ridden child staring at a UV lamp and dreaming of the sun.
i had something dreadfully important to write down, but i am very sorry to admit that i have just forgotten whatever it was that i had intended to say. how strange though, that i should hold it so near my heart for so long, and then when the time comes to finally release it, it should vanish from me entirely. how strange.
the mahdi's eldest son raised his slender hand slowly and held it infront of his eyes to shield them from the sun. "tell me," he began, "what do you see?" i looked out past him and, from our vantage point on the hills that make up the highest "mountain range" in burkina faso, i saw the pathetic hovels his people lived in, i saw the brown grass that sustained them, i saw the piles of garbage and filth that were steadily growing around their village, and then i wanted to see no more. the mahdi's son was a smart man, and he must have known what i was thinking, for he turned his beautiful blue eyes on me, beautiful blue eyes that were shared by all the people of his tribe, and he asked me what i thought time would do to them.
"time never gives, it only takes."
"does it seem fair to you?" i shook my head and looked back at the village; a drunken woman was stumbling home from one of the drinking dens that sold homemade alcohol, which was strictly banned by the muslim government. she slipped and fell several times before she made it back to her government built hovel. suddenly the mahdi's son turned to me with those eyes and said, "do you know, that once, not long ago, our ancestors wandered the plains freely and feared no man? now look, we have been caged. we do not deserve this. my people are beautiful, strong, intelligent, and kind. how can we be rewarded for that with this life?" i looked into his face and in his eyes i could see all the way back to a time before the government forced citizens to register and chained them to the land, effectively outlawing the nomadic lifestyle his people had thrived on, a beautiful time in the past. he continued, "and now i look at this undeserved torture and some days i see it getting better in the future, i see our children regaining what our grandfathers were unable to defend, but other days i see it staying the same. i think maybe staying the same is worse than things getting worse, but i am not certain."
i remember what it is i wanted to say. i am so pleased that it has returned to me. perhaps things aren't as bad as they so often seem.
when the wall came down, pèter asked me if i would not go to the state intelligence building in berlin to see what the stasi had put in my file. i told him that i did not care what the stasi had thought of me, the west had won and there really wasn't any reason to dig through the past. what was it to me if my neighbour had once informed on me? i am here and the german democratic republic is not. but then he told me his story-- his file said he was a long time and loyal member of the communist party who had always paid his dues, which was strange to him because he had no recollection of being a member of the communist party or of ever paying dues, and if it weren't for a series of happy coincidences, he might never have learned the truth behind this lie: the head of the east german writer's soviet had signed him up and paid the dues, whether from his own pocket or from the party's own funds we will never know, and equally unclear is his motive-- did he want to protect young writers by making them appear politically loyal? was he doing it for his own gain-to show that he was an effective recruiter? did he want to protect his writer's free speech by keeping enrollment numbers high? was he out of his mind? we will never know, because ivan drakulic has been dead since 1986. pèter told me that i should look at my own file, because it might also be full of lies and falsehoods, and if i should die without correcting the errors, those papers would be all that was left, and there would be no one to say, "no, you are wrong, he was not like that at all!" people would just accept what they read as the truth. i reluctantly agreed to visit the building, which turned out to be one in an entire neighbourhood of buildings devoted entirely to spying on the citizens of the former gdr, and after several days of constant requests, my file was finally located and i was given time in the reading room to review it.
i approached the file with great hesitation: we of the west had won, of that i was sure, but what could it contain that i did not already know? had my constant paranoia served to fuel there machine? had i played right into their hands by behaving as i did? i was soon to find out. on the desk lay a plain file folder, it was off-white and had my name written with a very old typewritter on it, and the s jumped the line, i remember that quite clearly. the folder was very thin, and when i opened it i found it to be empty. i asked the receptionist if there were some mistake, but he assured me that the entire contents of the stasi's interest in me was in that file as it was. and then, in that musty room, i felt more alone than i had ever felt in my entire life.
there are alligators living in the sewer, that is a widely believed fact, but the idea that they were once pets and then flushed down the toilet is ridiculous. they arrived by far more sinister means.
the mahdi's eldest son raised his slender hand slowly and held it infront of his eyes to shield them from the sun. "tell me," he began, "what do you see?" i looked out past him and, from our vantage point on the hills that make up the highest "mountain range" in burkina faso, i saw the pathetic hovels his people lived in, i saw the brown grass that sustained them, i saw the piles of garbage and filth that were steadily growing around their village, and then i wanted to see no more. the mahdi's son was a smart man, and he must have known what i was thinking, for he turned his beautiful blue eyes on me, beautiful blue eyes that were shared by all the people of his tribe, and he asked me what i thought time would do to them.
"time never gives, it only takes."
"does it seem fair to you?" i shook my head and looked back at the village; a drunken woman was stumbling home from one of the drinking dens that sold homemade alcohol, which was strictly banned by the muslim government. she slipped and fell several times before she made it back to her government built hovel. suddenly the mahdi's son turned to me with those eyes and said, "do you know, that once, not long ago, our ancestors wandered the plains freely and feared no man? now look, we have been caged. we do not deserve this. my people are beautiful, strong, intelligent, and kind. how can we be rewarded for that with this life?" i looked into his face and in his eyes i could see all the way back to a time before the government forced citizens to register and chained them to the land, effectively outlawing the nomadic lifestyle his people had thrived on, a beautiful time in the past. he continued, "and now i look at this undeserved torture and some days i see it getting better in the future, i see our children regaining what our grandfathers were unable to defend, but other days i see it staying the same. i think maybe staying the same is worse than things getting worse, but i am not certain."
i remember what it is i wanted to say. i am so pleased that it has returned to me. perhaps things aren't as bad as they so often seem.
when the wall came down, pèter asked me if i would not go to the state intelligence building in berlin to see what the stasi had put in my file. i told him that i did not care what the stasi had thought of me, the west had won and there really wasn't any reason to dig through the past. what was it to me if my neighbour had once informed on me? i am here and the german democratic republic is not. but then he told me his story-- his file said he was a long time and loyal member of the communist party who had always paid his dues, which was strange to him because he had no recollection of being a member of the communist party or of ever paying dues, and if it weren't for a series of happy coincidences, he might never have learned the truth behind this lie: the head of the east german writer's soviet had signed him up and paid the dues, whether from his own pocket or from the party's own funds we will never know, and equally unclear is his motive-- did he want to protect young writers by making them appear politically loyal? was he doing it for his own gain-to show that he was an effective recruiter? did he want to protect his writer's free speech by keeping enrollment numbers high? was he out of his mind? we will never know, because ivan drakulic has been dead since 1986. pèter told me that i should look at my own file, because it might also be full of lies and falsehoods, and if i should die without correcting the errors, those papers would be all that was left, and there would be no one to say, "no, you are wrong, he was not like that at all!" people would just accept what they read as the truth. i reluctantly agreed to visit the building, which turned out to be one in an entire neighbourhood of buildings devoted entirely to spying on the citizens of the former gdr, and after several days of constant requests, my file was finally located and i was given time in the reading room to review it.
i approached the file with great hesitation: we of the west had won, of that i was sure, but what could it contain that i did not already know? had my constant paranoia served to fuel there machine? had i played right into their hands by behaving as i did? i was soon to find out. on the desk lay a plain file folder, it was off-white and had my name written with a very old typewritter on it, and the s jumped the line, i remember that quite clearly. the folder was very thin, and when i opened it i found it to be empty. i asked the receptionist if there were some mistake, but he assured me that the entire contents of the stasi's interest in me was in that file as it was. and then, in that musty room, i felt more alone than i had ever felt in my entire life.
there are alligators living in the sewer, that is a widely believed fact, but the idea that they were once pets and then flushed down the toilet is ridiculous. they arrived by far more sinister means.