Monday, 4 March 2013

"death and all his friends."


Thousands of unmarked graves lie scattered. Some have a pile of bricks as tombstones. Some have sunk into the ground; others are just mounds of sand. I have yet to see a visitor. The dead lie forgotten, their abode caked in years of dust. 

Everyday this wide stretch of brown reminds me of life and its transience, death and its inevitability, and our ultimate finale. 

The winter rains transform the site, eroding the hard, dry earth into rivulets that flow across the graveyard. Green shoots emerge, fighting against the otherwise dry earth that suffocates them throughout the year, and breathe in the fresh winter air. They begin to grow innumerably, neatly covering a number of graves; enveloping them in a blanket of green. The winter also brings with it the wildflowers, which spring out amongst the verdure, giving the impression of yellowing broccoli from my vantage point.

Even in this vast expanse of death, there was so much life.

Most of the verdure grows out only atop the graves; the dead still have a purpose. The two seem to have an understanding—the remains of the dead nourish the soil, while the flora makes a prettier sight of their permanent abode.

The message remains: from the earth we have come, and to the earth we will return.

(Kuwait, December '12) 


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