Her skin was cold. As cold as the snow I later used to scrub her blood from my trembling hands.
She was a teenager and pretty. She wore a blue-gold dress and earrings that dangled with little pink peppers. Hours earlier, she’d been celebrating the birth of a neighborhood boy with scores of other villagers.
Now, she was a corpse. She lay on the floor of a storage room along a muddy road outside of town.
I’d been up since dawn, jarred awake by a soldier rapping on my door. “Sir, they found some bodies,” he said without emotion. He might just as well have announced that breakfast was getting cold. “Better get up. Don’t forget your camera.”
We’d shouldered our way through hundreds of scowling men surrounding the compound. Somewhere far off, I could hear women wailing.
The details of what occurred were unclear. What is certain is that this girl died some time during the night. She died in a hail of bullets that pierced her belly and tore through her larynx.
Four other bullet-riddled bodies splayed out on the concrete floor beside the girl – two men and two women, presumably family – were covered by blood-soaked wool blankets. But she wasn’t. Her death shroud was a burka. A blue one.
Peeling back the heavy fabric from her head and shoulders, I began to snap away. I only had a few minutes before the mob of mourners outside would carry her off. By sunset she would be in the ground.
Her eyes were empty. Lifeless. Her silky black hair fell lightly across her face. A plastic tiara lay crushed nearby.
I noticed a piece of ripped cloth, tied in a bow, which bound her big toes together. Her jaw was clenched shut by a rag fastened around her little head and beneath her chin – like Jacob Marley in “A Christmas Carol.” “That’s a funeral ritual,” someone said. “I saw it when I was here in ‘02.”
2002, I thought. Eight years. This war consumed half the girl’s life. Now she was its latest victim.
I tiptoed from corpse to corpse. The room was cramped, demanding all of my concentration not to step on hands or to smear the blood that was splattered on the wall. As I lifted back the blanket from each body, I covered my mouth and nose to stifle the sweet, sickly smell of death.
I never asked their names. I didn’t want to know them.
Forget them, I urged myself. The world already has.
She was a teenager and pretty. She wore a blue-gold dress and earrings that dangled with little pink peppers. Hours earlier, she’d been celebrating the birth of a neighborhood boy with scores of other villagers.
Now, she was a corpse. She lay on the floor of a storage room along a muddy road outside of town.
I’d been up since dawn, jarred awake by a soldier rapping on my door. “Sir, they found some bodies,” he said without emotion. He might just as well have announced that breakfast was getting cold. “Better get up. Don’t forget your camera.”
We’d shouldered our way through hundreds of scowling men surrounding the compound. Somewhere far off, I could hear women wailing.
The details of what occurred were unclear. What is certain is that this girl died some time during the night. She died in a hail of bullets that pierced her belly and tore through her larynx.
Four other bullet-riddled bodies splayed out on the concrete floor beside the girl – two men and two women, presumably family – were covered by blood-soaked wool blankets. But she wasn’t. Her death shroud was a burka. A blue one.
Peeling back the heavy fabric from her head and shoulders, I began to snap away. I only had a few minutes before the mob of mourners outside would carry her off. By sunset she would be in the ground.
Her eyes were empty. Lifeless. Her silky black hair fell lightly across her face. A plastic tiara lay crushed nearby.
I noticed a piece of ripped cloth, tied in a bow, which bound her big toes together. Her jaw was clenched shut by a rag fastened around her little head and beneath her chin – like Jacob Marley in “A Christmas Carol.” “That’s a funeral ritual,” someone said. “I saw it when I was here in ‘02.”
2002, I thought. Eight years. This war consumed half the girl’s life. Now she was its latest victim.
I tiptoed from corpse to corpse. The room was cramped, demanding all of my concentration not to step on hands or to smear the blood that was splattered on the wall. As I lifted back the blanket from each body, I covered my mouth and nose to stifle the sweet, sickly smell of death.
I never asked their names. I didn’t want to know them.
Forget them, I urged myself. The world already has.
My heart aches for you when I read this stuff. As a Mom now, it is the kind of stuff I hope my son never has to see. I realize this is part of why you guys do what you do, to save the rest of us from having to see it too. And we thank you for that.
ReplyDeleteBut I must say, I look forward to the day you are home again. And I look even more forward to the day that these images fade, and you are able to feel safe again.
Hi Matt,
ReplyDeleteI am impressed by the story you've written down here.
Take care and be careful.
Froucke
Matt, the first time I read this, I didn't want to comment for fear of saying something trite and ridiculous, but after a few days I just felt I needed to tell you that as a reader who cares about your well-being, my thoughts are with you.
ReplyDeleteThis war seems endless for the Afghans, going back decades before we Americans arrived and causing so much suffering. I hope somehow, surprising ourselves perhaps, there might be an easing of this constant killing and proxy battles across their countryside.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be as a soldier and an intelligent and sentient person, to have spent so much tough time in the country, hoping to help make peace and seeing so much left undone, having this experience now, and thinking God knows what thoughts as your time there grows short.
I hope you are well and hanging in, Matt. Take care, as Froucke above says.
Bill
Stunned. No other words at the moment to describe the way I feel after finding and reading a bit here. You've got something here. I'll be back.
ReplyDeleteWhy doesn't anyone express sympathy for the victim? I feel for you, Matt, I really do. My son is in ROTC and he may face things like this very soon and I worry about the effect it might have on him. So believe me when I say I am sorry you had to record these deaths. But really, my heart goes out to the dead girl's family even more than it does to you and honestly I feel very bad for you too.
ReplyDeleteVery inspiring story you wrote up...That`s interesting.I will definitely share with others.
ReplyDelete