Lessons from a Desert Underworld

It’s a relatively clear day outside . We’re trekking outside of the city to greet loved ones of the past. Ancient historical monuments line our route, along with the dusty tattered concrete roads the government won’t spare a penny on. They have palaces to maintain anyhow.

I’ve been here before. It’s a bittersweet memory, the all too familiar taste of nostalgia, of our childhoods, of the pain and the tears that resurface every once in a while.

I step out into the sand and enter the rusty gated area, plot upon plot of stories that ended; sometimes too soon, sometimes in vain, and other times before scores had been settled. We take a deep breath, and begin chanting the words were instructed to. As the desert sun tingles the skin on my cheeks, I squint, as the lines of a tired face take shape, and the buried tears stream down slowly along familiar patterns.

Sigh. I miss you all. Life makes less sense now that you aren’t here. Good day to you, and them, all of you.  Walking away never gets easier. It’s the same guilt, the same series of questions that riddle one’s minds when life deals such unfortunately grim hands, the flush that destroys your three-of-a-kind.

Copyright BBC

I sat in the car for something like a half an hour, pondering what I had just seen and felt, and steadily wiped the clumps of eyeliner and mascara that had smeared into an abstract face painting. What I saw next made me both sad and equally nauseous; a flood of the world’s lost children surrounded the vehicle. Tapping and begging ensued, and it did not stop until we managed to inch our way off the property.  My line of sight was populated by dirty faces and hands, soiled by life’s hardships and by the poverty that consumes them.  I could barely look them in the eyes and let my older cousin do the talking. She had fanned most of them away until the rest of our group opened the doors to re-enter and a flash of fingers and hands and cuffs appeared as my aunt pulled a few candied almomds out of her purse. It, of course, didnt stop there.

A young and stubbornly persistent boy hung on the window and tapped on it, so desperately, as we drove away, exchanging the cliche slew of words that most beggars utilize to guilt the fortumate to share their wealth, even just a tiny bit of it.

The long and bumpy drive back to civilization was somewhat quieter than expected. All I could feel was the bass of the speaker (blasting the cheesy local tunes) in the side panel of my door, the achiness in my feet and my heart, and the noises of car horns and screeching tires typical of the ambience of this place.

Days go by, death imminent for all of us, and yet we are never content. We always want more. We forget to enjoy life’s simplicities, and focus on the complexities we have no hand in changing. Oh where has the selfishness and self-absorbed nature of modern society landed us?  Quite frequently empty, apparently. Hollow until we are reminded of the loves we lost, the familiar faces that are no more, and our sheer audacity to overlook all the wonderful blessings bestowed upon us.

Shame on us.

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