pilgrimmage
a while back i read an article about a group of guantanamo detainees that were captured in afghanistan and held indefinitely without trial. what was weird was that they were from a muslim area of china and not likely to be involved with warlords or the taliban, but because china refused to take them back, they effectively were stripped of their nationality and freedom in one swoop by the american coalition. i don't really know much about these people, but it sparked an idea for me. my philosophical interests are to a great extent governed by concern with the existential state of exile, of abandonment and disruption of history. the bulk of the interesting stuff was written during or after WWII by the french or emigrated jews dealing with the shattering of their cultural and familial heritage. while the war in afghanistan isn't wwII, i imagine the themes of exile and existential crisis are alive and well. i know i can't really do justice to their lives and i'm not really sure if they deserve it, but i want to write about their story...even if i have to make up almost all of it.... i wrote the first little bit a while ago, and might continue it someday when i have more time to research. check it out...
it was with night pressing ever-wearingly into our shoulders that we crossed the border. it was only a mess of corrugated tin and barbed wire at this point, cleared to one side where the mountain sloped down at nearly a right angle making a doorway almost abrahamic in its immensity, a blacker contrast striking the night. the moon was rising huge and bright over the mountains to the south east, betraying a mess of low, dark clouds as they pushed furtively through the valleys in the riffled terrain below. just as we cleared the last turn on the thin path the moon filled this medieval, folkloric gateway and it brought me a beautiful feeling, filling me as I stepped forward finally through and out of our journey into our destination. I thanked allah lightly and heard mumbles from my companions amounting to similar things, to realizations, relief, and revelations.
we moved faster now, united by purpose once again as we had been the day we left our village months ago. some took the time to congratulate each other, exhausted and filthy and smiling and now revealed in the bright moonlight mimicking day and pushing back against the constellations once so bright and unavoidable in the moonless night and now winked out in their inadequacy. for months we have barely smiled. now we see our goal almost in reach and we give up that resilience. I held my joy tight, stifled it until it fled again.
but even I could not help myself from cracking a small, satisfied smile as the road turned down and away from the summits and began to widen as it wandered steadily down and away from the warm summer wind and bright cold air. I reserved my relief for shelter, for the day when we finally found the man we came to meet in this far away, rocky, desolate country. on that day allah’s grace would be overwhelming. discipline.
-
each brick was in stark contrast to the light white mortar, dry and fading in the summer heat of midday. everyone wore white, though ours was stained and worn. as pilgrims we had no shame for our appearance in the wake of our long travel. we walked through the unpaved streets and looked for something that would resemble a gathering place, somewhere we’d have the best chance of finding someone who could speak at least one of the languages our mixed group of pilgrims spoke, to lead us to an imam in this canyon of a town.
each building was built on some slope, and they were seemingly functional for all the shabbiness of their construction. it was not unlike the town we began from months ago, underdeveloped, earthquake prone, but also proud in its originality, in the feeling of efficacy that stirs a person when you manage to do something, anything, even small, inconsequential things, without help. this town was raised on the backs of the people who lived here, razed to the ground, and built again, the fragility of it all buttressed by pride.
we were a sight, and slowly gathered an entourage of children and the bored. men watched us from windows, black clad women peeked from behind their burkas out above unfinished roofs, rebar rising in mockery of the columns it’d once been attached to on that roof or simply in a dusty, square patch of land ringed with crumbling mortar and brick foundations. we followed the sound of the morning to the market and found ourselves awash in men conducting business in the mounting heat that would only grow until surrendering to gusts of wind breaking the cold, altitude-ridden night. our pace was asynchronous, too hurried by abstract purpose and the feeling of urgency accompanying the near end of any trip you never really imagined would end. all around us the men walked slowly, conserving effort in the heat, dressed in white. the market was bustling like every market we’d passed on the silk road and we walked through the crowds silently, a wedge of foreignness in the everyday function until a man in immaculate whites emerged from a doorway half hidden behind a stall and beckoned us inside.
it was with night pressing ever-wearingly into our shoulders that we crossed the border. it was only a mess of corrugated tin and barbed wire at this point, cleared to one side where the mountain sloped down at nearly a right angle making a doorway almost abrahamic in its immensity, a blacker contrast striking the night. the moon was rising huge and bright over the mountains to the south east, betraying a mess of low, dark clouds as they pushed furtively through the valleys in the riffled terrain below. just as we cleared the last turn on the thin path the moon filled this medieval, folkloric gateway and it brought me a beautiful feeling, filling me as I stepped forward finally through and out of our journey into our destination. I thanked allah lightly and heard mumbles from my companions amounting to similar things, to realizations, relief, and revelations.
we moved faster now, united by purpose once again as we had been the day we left our village months ago. some took the time to congratulate each other, exhausted and filthy and smiling and now revealed in the bright moonlight mimicking day and pushing back against the constellations once so bright and unavoidable in the moonless night and now winked out in their inadequacy. for months we have barely smiled. now we see our goal almost in reach and we give up that resilience. I held my joy tight, stifled it until it fled again.
but even I could not help myself from cracking a small, satisfied smile as the road turned down and away from the summits and began to widen as it wandered steadily down and away from the warm summer wind and bright cold air. I reserved my relief for shelter, for the day when we finally found the man we came to meet in this far away, rocky, desolate country. on that day allah’s grace would be overwhelming. discipline.
-
each brick was in stark contrast to the light white mortar, dry and fading in the summer heat of midday. everyone wore white, though ours was stained and worn. as pilgrims we had no shame for our appearance in the wake of our long travel. we walked through the unpaved streets and looked for something that would resemble a gathering place, somewhere we’d have the best chance of finding someone who could speak at least one of the languages our mixed group of pilgrims spoke, to lead us to an imam in this canyon of a town.
each building was built on some slope, and they were seemingly functional for all the shabbiness of their construction. it was not unlike the town we began from months ago, underdeveloped, earthquake prone, but also proud in its originality, in the feeling of efficacy that stirs a person when you manage to do something, anything, even small, inconsequential things, without help. this town was raised on the backs of the people who lived here, razed to the ground, and built again, the fragility of it all buttressed by pride.
we were a sight, and slowly gathered an entourage of children and the bored. men watched us from windows, black clad women peeked from behind their burkas out above unfinished roofs, rebar rising in mockery of the columns it’d once been attached to on that roof or simply in a dusty, square patch of land ringed with crumbling mortar and brick foundations. we followed the sound of the morning to the market and found ourselves awash in men conducting business in the mounting heat that would only grow until surrendering to gusts of wind breaking the cold, altitude-ridden night. our pace was asynchronous, too hurried by abstract purpose and the feeling of urgency accompanying the near end of any trip you never really imagined would end. all around us the men walked slowly, conserving effort in the heat, dressed in white. the market was bustling like every market we’d passed on the silk road and we walked through the crowds silently, a wedge of foreignness in the everyday function until a man in immaculate whites emerged from a doorway half hidden behind a stall and beckoned us inside.