Part 1: The Dresden Diaries
9-year old
Freidrich looked out of the window and up at the sinister dark clouds gathering
over the city. It was midday but it did not feel that way. In the distance he
could see a plume of black smoke rising into the blanket of grey cumulus. It seemed
like the earth was offering clouds to the sky, which then blanketed the city.
It was getting warmer as the clock ticked along but with temperatures just a
tad above 0◦C, Freidrich still had a lot to do to convince himself to
take his un-gloved palm out of his jacket pocket and extend it outside the open
window. The darkness hanging about the town, accentuated by the reluctance of
the Sun to peek beyond the cloud cover may have been ominous to the residents
but the serenity of the sombre sky and the calmness of the cumulonimbus
covering the city attracted Friedrich even more. His father’s job as a
fire-fighter and the numerous stories he had heard at bedtime, had perhaps made
him more appreciative of rainfall than the average citizen. Friedrich poked his
face out of the window and immediately recoiled into the warmth of the room as
the harsh, glacial gust of chilly wind reddened his cheeks. He looked around
furtively to ascertain whether his adventurous digression had caught the
attention of his mother. To his surprise he saw that she was not in the room.
Getting down from the window sill, Freidrich hobbled over to the dining room
and saw his mother leaning against the back door, being comforted by Frau Hermann,
the next door neighbour. Cognizant of the fact that something was not right,
Freidrich edged closer to the door through the dimly lit room until he could
catch some of the words they were speaking.
“. . .
there was a second group after midnight. They are saying that no one who
went to douse the fires survived.”
Sounds of stifled sobbing, which Friedrich
identified as his mother’s continued.
“Herr Hermann is saying that we must
leave Dresden immediately. What happened last night was not the end. Yesterday
it was the British and soon it will be the Americans. You should come with us.
Quickly pack everything and get Friedrich and Marlene.”
Friedrich
stood rooted to the spot, hardly being able to process the words. It could not
be true what he was hearing. His father had told him a story when he went to
bed last night. He had just gone to douse a fire and he would be back like
every other time. Friedrich wanted to run from the dining room and out through
the front door, look up at the burgeoning dark clouds and feel the first
droplets of rain fall on his cheek and slide down through his jacket
uncomfortably tickling him all the way down to his tummy. The words of his
father rang clear in his ears as if he was standing beside him –
“Freidrich do you know why it rains?”
“No father! Why does it rain?”
“You can think of it as God helping me
– helping us, son. It is him dousing the fires that we light. The rain douses
that and cools everything down”
His train of
thought was broken by his mother shaking him by his shoulders. As he looked up
into her teary eyes, she suddenly looked a lot older to Friedrich. As she
enveloped him in her arms and tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to control her
tears Friedrich looked past the dining table and out through the back door.
It has
started to drizzle. Suddenly, an urge to cry overwhelmed Friedrich and as hard
as he tried to not, a sadness welled up inside him, slowly eating away at his
insides and rising through his body, making its way slowly but surely to his
lachrymal glands, leaving behind a void that seemed infinite.
As if from a
world away, he could hear his mother’s supressed sobs but he was jolted back to
reality by the uncomfortable tingling of her tears trickling down his neck
through the defences of the many layers that he wore.
“Go up and
get your sister Friedrich. We need to get away”, whispered his mother in his
ears. Those were the last words he ever heard.
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Although aerial bombing was a commonly used tactic during WW2, the bombing of Dresden using high-explosive bombs and incendiaries in February 1945 drew widespread condemnation for what seemed to be a sadist manoeuvre aimed at civilians. Two bombings separated by 3 hours on the night of the 13th decimated Freidrichstadt and the bombings on the morning of the 14th reduced Atmarkt to a pile to rubble and ash. Under the impact of more than 2500 T of bombs within a few hours, the city of Dresden lost more than 25000 civilians and 12000 dwellings. 3 months later the German High Command surrendered bringing an end to the War in Europe
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Part 2: The Basque Book
Juan looked
up at the sky and sighed to himself. The setting sun had washed the sky in
beautiful bright hues of orange, yellow and red and Juan could almost imagine
the colours being devoured by the seemingly calm blue Bay. He missed the days
of going down to Mundaka and staring at the vastness of the sea, of the waves
lashing gently against the rocky coast and gradually the cerulean sky turning
from a peachy pink to an ochre overwhelming the horizon. He would watch
astonished as the amber and tangerine colours streaked across the evening sky
and the vermilion of the setting sun dissipated slowly but surely into the
aquamarine sea. The darkness would descend immediately, converting the sea to a
prussian hue and the sky to plum purple slowly transitioning into dull grey and
finally pitch black with just the solitary shining moon shining still.
“Senor
Navarro”
Juan was
jolted back to the present by the familiar voice. He turned around and looking
over the numerous heads in the crowded marketplace, tried to locate the source
of the mellifluous voice. Making his way past a few women haggling over some
potatoes with a harried vendor, Juan found the object of his search.
“Yes Senora!
How can I be of assistance?”, Juan inquired of the beautiful young lady buying
tumblers.
“There is a
rumour about town Juan that you are always ready to provide assistance to all
young women. Is this true?”, she taunted, smirking.
Juan’s cheeks
flushed a colour that would have put the evening sky to shame. He looked away
from her and murmured,” I help everyone but for some, the desire is more”.
“Excuse me? I
cannot hear you over this din Juan. Can you speak up?”, she urged. Juan,
grudgingly turned to face her and immediately regretted his decision as the
grin on her face informed him of the colour of his cheeks. He lowered his gaze,
urging his cheeks to prevent embarrassing him in front of the woman he desired.
As he stood there and shuffled his feet, hoping the market would dissolve
around him so that he could grab her hand and run away, his heart leapt up
suddenly and sank immediately into what felt like the deep recess of the Biscay
– he never knew that the warmth of someone’s fingers entangling his own could
have such an impact.
“I do not know your name Senora”, he murmured
as he was literally pulled through the crowded market-place. Not getting any
response other than a knowing smile, he urged, “I know nothing about you in
fact, except that you come to Guernica every Monday.”
“Do you feel
safe going with someone you barely know?”, he added slyly after a pause.
Her head
rocked back as peals of laughter reverberated through the empty alley into
which she had led him. Her haunting laugh seemed to bounce off the stucco walls
towering over the paved lane. In that moment, Juan made a mental note to
himself, he had fallen irreversibly in love.
“At least
tell me your name Senora”, he almost huffed and puffed as he ran to keep up
with her.
They had come
to the end of the alley where a huge commotion distracted them. A huge crowd of
people was running helter-skelter, a raucous cacophony reaching a pitiful
crescendo. In the distance a plume of black smoke rose up behind the skyline
disappearing into the blood red sky. Before Juan could make head or tail of
what was happening, an ear-splitting sound forced him to wring his hand free
and cover his ears. He looked up towards the tangerine laced sky trying to make
out the source of the hellish sound. Before he realised what was happening, he
was thrown backwards and his body hit the pavement hard. A streaking heat
erupted from his left hand and he yelled in excruciating pain as stones and
rubble fell all around him. Amidst the smoke-screen of dust, his watery eyes
could make out as a huge fire consuming the scene in front of him leaving
behind only charred remnants, beyond recognition.
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The Basque
city of Guernica was bombed in multiple air-raids in the evening of 26th
April 1937 by Spanish nationalists with support of the German Luftwaffe and the
Italian Regia Aeronautica decimating more than three-fourths of the city and
killing around 300 people. By 19th June Bilbao, the biggest Basque
city and capital of Biscay province had fallen to the nationalists. The Civil
War would last for another 2 years almost
Pablo
Picasso, then living in Paris in exile, moved by the bombing of the city
painted his famous ‘Guernica’ in 35 days starting from 1st May 1937.
It is housed in the Reina Sofia in Madrid today.
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Part 3: The History of Herat
“We shall not
leave behind the legacy and teachings of our forefathers to lick the boots of
the Red Villains”, asserted Ayyub vehemently, fingers pointed up at the sky.
His baggy tomban flapped about helplessly in the cool breeze as he held his
pose for impact. Hearing none of the applause he had expected, he continued,”
We may have been pushed back but we will never be pushed out of our father’s
lands”. The crowd, sombre and seemingly somnolent till then, was energized by
the jibe directed at their lands and burst into a round of raucous cheering.
Rather pleased by the turn of good fortune, Ayyub adjusted his printed skull
cap and continued loudly over the sound of the large green flags flapping in
the strong, gusty wind, “The way of life which we have lived for so many years
and that which has sustained our forefathers shall sustain us too just as their
lands will sustain us”. The clapping and cheering of the fifty people who had
gathered there on a warm, windy day in March was quickly drowned by the
whistling wind and the flapping festoons. Ismail, left to be by himself for a
few hours as his father contributed to the decibels in front of the Jami
Masjid, wandered around the Darb-e-Khosh Square staring up inquisitively at the
tall minarets and huge domes that adorned the skyline beyond the general
humdrum of the food carts and jewellery stores. The Square, usually busy, had
been silent since the 15th. Ayyub’s voice got fainter and fainter
till he became like a footnote – present but ignored, and Ismail revelled in
the sound of just the breeze whistling past the deserted city square. He looked
up at the cloudless cyan-coloured sky that stretched right from the mundane
earthy architecture on his left to the equally pale and uninteresting
structures to his right. The vast expanse amazed him.
“What do you
find so interesting in the sky?”, inquired an innocent voice. Turning around,
Ismail saw a young girl, not much younger than him dressed in a bright red ikat
dress and matching ikat trousers. She looked like something right out of a
storybook to Ismail. Perched on an empty bench outside a shuttered shop on an
empty street, she looked questioningly at Ismail and repeated her question
earnestly. Supressing a smile, Ismail replied, “Well it is huge and it hides so
much. There is much beyond what we can see from here you know”, he said
matter-of-factly.
“No, no I
don’t. What do you mean we cannot see?”, inquired the girl staring
disbelievingly at Ismail with her large curious eyes.
“Don’t you go
to school, young one? Haven’t you heard of Sputnik?”, taunted Ismail.
“Girls don’t
go to school”, replied the girl pompously. “That’s only for the boys. That’s
what baba always says.”
Aghast at the
revelation and indignant by her confidence Ismail blurted out, “Where is your
baba? What are you doing here all alone?”
“I am not
alone. My ammi is there inside the bazaar trying to find some open shops so
that she can cook some food. We have not eaten anything since yesterday. My
baba is near the Jami Masjid. He is the one speaking”
“Listen
little one. You must go to school. You are like my younger sister Ruhi and she
used to go to school every day till they started making new rooms for girls in
our school last year. Since then she is at home but ammi says that the rooms
will be made by next year and she can go again. She is smarter than me – that
Ruhi. Don’t tell her I said that, okay?”
“Ismail!”,
rang out his father’s voice like a chilling bullet through the silence. Ismail
smiled at the girl and turned around and ran back towards the Square where his
father waited for him impatiently.
“Come quickly
son. We have heard that more people have come in tanks to join us in our fight.
We must greet them”, he urged.
“Will they reopen
Ruhi’s school?”, asked Ismail, eyes wide with excitement as he came to a
standstill.
“What
nonsense Ismail! Who’s telling you such lies?”, his father asked coldly,
rapping him on his knuckles.
Ismail looked
back over his shoulder slowly at the deserted street, at the shuttered shops
and at the lonely girl in red sitting on a stranded bench and the betrayal hit
him hard. He had never felt real sadness before, the sadness of being lied to
by someone trusted. The gut-wrenching truth of the situation washed over him
and overwhelmed him and in a moment, everything he had taken for granted
vanished into nothingness, just like that.
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On 20th
March 1979, Herat, one of the largest cities in Afghanistan was bombed by
Soviet bombers soon after Communist government-backed military troops strolled
into the city in disguised tanks to quell the insurgence led by civilians with
religious and agrarian interests. Mass graves were dug to bury the dead in the
ruins of Herat. Mixed-gender classes -one of the causes of the uprising continues
to be scarce in Afghanistan 41 years hence.
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