Sarah watched the sun creep over the silhouetted pylons, spilling its orange glow across the beige cityscape of Kirkuk, Iraq. Like a yellow disked boat, it sailed, breaking through a beautiful transition of grey, red and blue waves that lapped at the stern, mingling the colours in its wake. Alas, oceanic comparisons only intensified her quiet longing for her coastal home, worlds away in southern England. There were no expanses of water within a hundred miles of this baking desert landscape. 1
Sarah turned her attention to the small, hunched man who busied himself with a shovel next to a dusty headstone. He looked up at her, his eyes were as grey as his hair and pregnant with sorrow, yet he smiled warmly. Farhad Halmat had offered his ramshackle home to Sarah and her team of aid workers when they had first arrived at the battle scarred city. His wife had greeted them with kindness, a dull burka obscuring her face and three scrawny boys scampering around her feet, and told Sarah how the burdens of her husband’s job had lessened since he had learned of their arrival. Maybe it was because he knew he could help the orphans of the Al-Qaeda insurgency by giving her a safe place to stay. Perhaps, Sarah thought, it was because she had accepted his bizarre terms. The only thing the aging Arab wanted in return for his hospitality was for Sarah to go to work with him for one day.2
Farhad had a rough, mapped look about him. Sarah had been surprised to find out that he was only forty-two years old. As she watched him slowly dig the trench, it became apparent to her why the years had not been kind to her host. She gazed across the headstones that marked the grave next to them, like dominoes lined up in neat rows across the dusty plain. Hundreds of people were buried just beneath the hot sand, many of whom she guessed this small man had buried himself. Sarah observed his calm expression and his purposeful movements, she wondered whether he remembered any of their faces, their family members, how they died – anything that could serve as a reminder that the object he was burying beneath the dirt was human. She guessed not, a man who witnessed so much sorrow and horror everyday must have built his own psychological barrier against such tragedy. He was a grave-digger; it was his job to cope with death.3
Tired of standing idle under the blisteringly hot sun, Sarah took a shovel and helped her host dig the hole. It was back-breaking work; the grave had to be as deep as the digger was tall, and after half a metre of sand came rubble, rock and clay. Farhad had said that, most of the time, the graves only had to be deep enough to keep out the wild dogs. After a while, the hunched man took out a small piece of a paper and examined it, eventually deciding that the grave had to be longer. The digits he inspected did not seem to hold any more meaning to him than what they were; measurements for a hole. In those numbers Sarah saw the height of a dead person and a shallow grave. Unable to contemplate the complexity of this man in the confines of her head, Sarah finally spoke.4
“Farhad, who will lie in this grave?” She asked in rusty Arabic. 5
“This is for a policeman. He died yesterday.” Sarah was surprised by his matter-of-fact tone.6
“How did he die?”7
“He was shot. Once here and again here,” he signalled to his left rib and again to his neck, “Most of the people I bury here are policemen, they are usually from gun-fights.”8
“How do you know?”9
“I have seen him. I see all of them. I clean their bodies and wrap them up in blue plastic,” he pointed towards Sarah’s blue neckerchief and chuckled, “Then, I dig their grave, make their headstone and bury them.” Sarah paused for a few moments as she deciphered Farhad’s language in her head. His accent was thick and hissed through gaps in his teeth.10
“What about their families?”11
“Their families come to watch me bury their dead, but not always. Sometimes I do not know who the person is. When the families are here they say prayers to Allah and are always very sad. You will see soon.”12
“How will I see?”13
“I am going to bury this man today.”14
It was after noon by the time the grave had been completed to Farhad’s satisfaction. Sarah had gone to gain whatever respite from the heat that she could while the gravedigger disappeared to prepare the body. When he returned, a larger man gripped one end of a stretcher and upon it laid a blue shape. It was neatly packaged, as if it were a gift ready to be presented to the afterlife. This was bitter ironic symbolism that would provide no relief for the trailing woman. Her eyes were raw and bloodshot and her tiny daughter clutched tightly to her hand. Sarah stood up as they approached, a lump already swelling within her throat. A cold silence spread across the graveyard, intermittently broken by the woman’s soft sobbing as she clung to the side of the stretcher. The larger man, a helper employed by Farhad, said a few words of prayer and then slowly lowered the stretcher into the ground. Shadows consumed the stiff figure as if dark hands of the earth were retrieving what was theirs. There was a sense of hurriedness about the procedure, driven by the grief in the eyes of the widow as she watched them drag her husband away from her forever. Her look contrasted greatly with Farhad’s empty gaze.15
Sarah clamped her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stop herself from making any sound. Tears clouded her vision. She listened to the woman’s moans; there was pain within her gasps that Sarah would never be able to put into words. Uncontrollable emotion flowed from a person whose entire world was being covered with the dust of Farhad’s shovel. The little girl’s porcelain face looked up towards her mother; did she understand where her father was going? Sarah finally tasted the salt of her own tears, and she turned away. Sadness shivered through her.16
It took Sarah most of the day to recover. She had even elected to escort the woman from the graveyard, anything to help this poor soul in her time of mourning. She returned to Farhad who had emerged from a wooden hut. The two shovels in his grasp reflected the mid-afternoon sun and he smiled at her, an expression that she returned. A connection formed between them for a few seconds, filling Sarah with warmth.17
“What is this?” She finally asked, motioning towards the shovel he was offering her.18
“We have to dig another grave. For tomorrow.”19
“Another one? How can you witness sadness like that and then start all over?” 20
“I have dug seven hundred graves in three years. The fighting has brought me many bodies. Some of them I knew. Some of them were friends and neighbours who I had known my whole life. It does not get easier for me.”21
Sarah felt a wave of sympathy for the small man. She accepted a shovel and followed him to a new spot. Together, in silence, they began to dig once more. This time her mind was not only plagued by thoughts of the person whose destiny ended in this hole, but also with thoughts of the family who would be standing upon this very sand, sobbing hopelessly for their loved one. She stopped digging for a while and watched Farhad do his job. She wondered how it was possible to get through each day witnessing such pain, suffering and sorrow.22
“Farhad, do you ever feel sadness for these people?”23
“Every time. I feel sorrow as if they were my own. It is very sad.”24
“Why do you still do this job?” She asked. Farhad stopped working.25
“I do not like my job. I want to stop, if I could have another job tomorrow, even with half of the pay, I would take it. But I cannot read or write and my family are hungry.”26
“Don’t you cry when the bodies go into the grave?”27
“I cried once. Sometimes I do not get the bodies, sometimes they cannot be found. I have buried clothes of a man’s son before, just for his peace. Sometimes it is even worse… bits of bodies. Flesh or limbs. Once I got two full sacks of them. A bomb had gone off outside a shop and a boy died. He was only twelve years old. I opened one of the sacks and I found his head. When I saw his face, it reminded me of my son. He was… so young, so much like my little boy. He had big brown eyes…” Sarah placed her hand to her mouth again. Even without her grasp of Arabic it was easy to see the gravedigger’s sadness. His eyes glistened in the dying sunlight.28
“Did you bury the boy?”29
“Yes, the next day I buried him and said a prayer to Allah. I still remember him. I wish I could have spoken to him when he was alive. He helped me see that I have to do my job so people can have the peace that I have at my home.”30
Sarah nodded and wiped away a tear from her eye. Struggling to hold back a flow of emotions, she reached for the shovel to continue digging the hole. To her surprise Farhad resisted and waved her away. She moved over and sat next to him on the pile of dirt.31
“Rest, take some time,” he said.32
“Why did you want me to come to work with you, Farhad?”33
“I wanted you to go home and tell your people what it is like to be a gravedigger here. You see numbers in your papers and on your television telling you how many have died in my country, but you do not know how it is for me. I have to look at each one of them, see their injuries, their families and say prayers for them. You feel sorrow for a terrible number; but I feel sorrow in my heart for every single person that lies here beneath the ground.”34
The sun became a red orb that dipped behind the darkening cityscape. It cast a pink glow across the Kirkuk graveyard, marking each grave with the shadow of its headstone. The small man glanced up at Sarah and a broad grin spread across his face once more. This time, behind those cold eyes, she saw more than just sorrow. She clambered to her feet and picked up a shovel.35
“Come on, let’s finish this grave and go home.” 36
Farhad picked up his shovel, chuckled and was soon back in the grave, digging away as if his hole was the only thing that mattered in the world. As Sarah watched him, her lips curled into a smile for the first time in hours.
Author notes
DRAFT 5 (yep, I'm obsessed). Inspired by a news article I read suggesting that we should feel sorry for Iraqi gravediggers who are becoming 'put out of work' by the 'decreasing number of fatalities'. In reality, it is still just as bad out there and instead of worrying about the gravediggers' redundancies, maybe we should be considering their actual jobs.
A contest entry
- Write Me Something Original! by Rhubarb.
225 points, ended August 23, 2008, 13 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Such a Tragedy... by Shinami Tsuyoki.
825 points, ended September 13, 2008, 30 entries
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Comments
1 - 14 of 14
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This is so sad! I didn't realize gravediggers had such a horrorible job. You did a great job with this story.
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What an wonderful story! I think stories set in the current warzone of Iraq are always interesting reads, since (as your commentary on the "terrible numbers" illustrates) we can only become so sympathetic just seeing the conflict on news reports.
Speaking of which, that particular part of the story contains my only real problem with it. If Farhad cannot read or write, and presumably has no access to the BBC or other news channel (and this doesn't matter since he apparently cannot speak English anyway), how is it that he would know just how desensitized the British and Americans in their homelands are to the "numbers" of the war? I'd think the only views he would have access to from the invading nations would be from the soldiers, who are definitely NOT looking at the war through a television screen.
Sorry to start out with a negative point, but I'm sure that you didn't learn how to write a story of this quality without developing a thick skin. I have to praise your employment of beautiful imagery in the opening, the same descriptive prowess allowing us to imagine just what Farhad looks like.
Indeed, the characters were something of a mixed bag. Farhad is fully fleshed out and seems like he is lifted right out of Kirkuk, Iraq, and dropped into Kirkuk, StoryWrite. Sarah is something a bit less, it seems; her questions at times sound like a TV interviewer, although that may be all you really need her to be. More internal dialogue might help make her more 3D, if'n ya want to.
Anywho, time to cease this rambling nonsense, and move on with life. I hoped I was able to give you some sound advice, but above all I just wanted to say you have a great little tale here, and keep hammering away at it until it's reached perfection; I think you don't have much farther to go, at that.
Russell
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Thank you for a great comment! I agree, Sarah does seem a bit flat throughout, I knew I couldn't focus on her too much but maybe I should at least give her a few minutes under the spotlight. I also had not given the 'numbers' problem a thought, thank you for raising it. I may revise that part because you are right, it detracts a little bit from the realism.
Again, your comment was much appreciated, thank you!
-CC
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This is just inspiring. You write with so much expression and description, and every sentence is though out carefully.
One tiny error, 'can not' is one word (cannot). I am being really picky, and if this every became a novel, spelling would be checked millions of times anyway.
Well done, and thanks for entering. -
wow
I admire you for writing this. I was touched by your words. Excellent. It's hard for me to imagine that this sort of thing happens, so thank you for enlightening me. Please keep writing =)
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Hi Chris,
First a disclaimer to my critique; I am a big fan of lean prose in which every word is there because it absolutely cannot be taken away. So while commenting on this, I sense all my style comment will be along those lines. I'm all about pruning down lines.
In your beginning, here is what I see. I think it can be tightened down to the bare minimum. I'd take out "It was just after dawn when", for example, just because the fact that the sun is creeping up makes it clear it's dawn. I would go on to cut "It reminded her" and simply describe. After all, she is watching, and it seems that the story is in third person limited narration, implying that all that's described so far is what she's seeing. This would result in something like:
"Sarah watched the sun creep over silhouetted pylons, spilling its orange glow across the beige cityscape of Kirkuk, Iraq. Like a yellow disked boat, it sailed, breaking through grey, red and blue waves that lapped at the stern, mingled the colours in the boat's wake."
Now for some, this might be too dense, description-wise and perhaps not work for what you wish the story to do, but it's an example of what I'm talking about. As I read on, "Of course, she knew any comparison to the sea could be put down to her" jumps out at me after the rich descriptions. It drags the read, slows it with many words. Perhaps there is a way to rephrase it to be sharper, quicker?
In the second paragraph the feel of the piece changed. The beginning set up a sort of impression that Sarah would be telling the story directly through her experiences. By the third sentence in paragraph two, the story shifts into a sort of summary of events. There is nothing wrong with background development, but it isn't as immediate as an actual story. As I read on, I couldn't help but wonder if it could be possible to show these facts. Perhaps instead of "His wife had said...toll" that could be his wife actually saying that, leaving over a bare kitchen table, chipped cup in hand, head cover dull from too many washes? A short scene of a conversation could gently insert this information (unless length and word count considerations come into play here).
Another something that you might want to look at before submitting the piece for publication/contest is that at times, your sentences run on. You prefer compound and complex sentence structure and in sentences like "Sarah observed...dirt was human" I had trouble following it, grammar aside. I noticed this several times. Often a quick, short sentence can add punch to the paragraph when placed amid the longer ones and put emphasis on some part. It's a subtle way to add dramatic effect.
As the dialogue began, I wondered. She speaks rusty Arabic, but her sentences are long and formal. His, a native speaker, on the other hand, are short and to the point. While this shows how he is a worker, it doesn't convey her troubles with the language. Also, when he speaks at length about the burials, he talks a lot, but she doesn't seem to have any trouble understanding. I know from my experience with a couple languages that even when you know it well enough to communicate, it's easy to miss words and misunderstand sentences.
By paragraph sixteen I felt that perhaps you had tired some of focusing in on the details. Your sentences are structured solidly with "were" and "was" which, while fine grammatically, don't lend much to active description. For example, this sentence:
"When he returned, a larger, younger man was helping him carry a stretcher, and upon it was a blue shape."
Is weighed down with information rather than action. My personal preference would be for this alternative:
He returned with a stretcher. A larger man gripped one end of it; a blue shape lay on it.
Here, there are actors and they are doing actions - he returned, young man gripped, blue shape lay. For my own writing, I've found that structuring sentences so that the subjects did the action rather than being static, added tension-building and attention-holding points to the story. This cutting of passive descriptions (with "to be" verbs) would be something the critic in me would like to see throughout the piece.
My final structural nit-pick would be about the use of adverbs in the piece. I'd just go through the story and cut them out without mercy; anything with an -ly ending is suspect.
Overall, I think this piece is a beautiful statement (though perhaps the bit about "not a day would pass...etc" risked being melodramatic - it was an insertation of an omniscient narrator. ) and it's a powerful message. Looking at the real people involved, rather than statistics, is harrowing, difficult and oh, so necessary to remain human and humane though wars and turmoil. It's hard to deal with a subject as complex and charged as this. Kudos for taking the risk and challenge.
I hope my thoughts are some useful. Good luck writing (and revising if you so choose)!
Kind regards,
Solidarity
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Well done
The your vocabulary choice was consistently excellent and I enjoyed the characterization. The concept of the story itself was well thought out.
It had the wide-eyed appeal of a children's story, with the innocent character questioning the wise character, which allowed the much more adult social commentary to strike me on a more basic level than most stories of this type.
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Heartfelt, of course. Don't TRANSLATE!
Forgive me for marking these catches as I go...otherwise I'll forget them (I don't have a pen handy)
P4..."many of WHOM" (you have "which)
P5..."submerge" = wrong word...means to place under WATER. Just use "buried in the dirt"
P5....very effective graph. Terrific. (lose one of the "justs"
P13...not clear where "here" is. Have him gesture or point. The second "here" is also vague.
Story so far, I find riveting!
P16 "disappeared" is enough. I'd lose "from sight."
P16...as if it WERE a gift... you have as if it "was" Check this. not sure.
P17...find another word for "welling." Used already.
"Whose entire world was being covered with the dust of Farhad's shovel! WHEW! Boy! Great writing, C. (fix the tense though...the "h" to "w"...you have "has being" typo. I'd also leave out the next line about the father. This is used too many times and your preceding line is plenty powerful. Don't gild the lily!
P18...Just say "to recover." Lose the "from this experience." We know! lol!
Then...new sentence: "She had even, etc." (you have a few run-ons throughout.)
P18...I'd lose "an expression that could have meant many things." This tells us nothing. Just say what Sarah thought...what SHE decided it meant! But be careful not to tell us what it meant...let the reader decide! Otherwise, you are injecting, editorializing, manipulating. Just sow the seed...hint of the possibility. Don't tell us!
P21...You don't need "again."
P22...to keep with Farhad;s accent...lose "any",,,just say "easier."
P23...I'd lose "ultimately" just "ended in this hole" seems more powerful to me. (Sometimes less is more!) Also fix "stood" standing? or lose "would be"
P29...would he know the word "chunks?" How about pieces?...lumps?
P29 "Valuables?" in his head? Lol! (sounds like it!)
At this point, it is my feeling that you are going over the same ground...it becomes a bit too much, You know...same tears, same sadness...same ground!
P37...You are starting your editorial here...the moralising comes through. I don't think you need to do this. The readers of this pieces know! Theyt will get it! Just say SARA KNEW WHY Fahad had her come with him! Don't tell us. It ruins the case you are making.
Again, here at the end of P38 you are editorizlizing! Don't do it. It's OBVIOUS. We don't NEED to be told this. If Sarah "saw more than sorrow"...leave it at that. Don't TELL US what she saw! We know! YOUR story already told us!
And again, inP41...Not necessary. DON'T DO THIS.
The story speaks for itself! (It doesn't need you to interpret what it just conveyed!)
Leave it with P40...Farhad digs...Sarah watches...smiles!
Otherwise...what I'm saying, C,it is a WONDERFUL story...WELL TOLD...Don't overdo it...The story is FINE ENOUGH. Don't tell us what it means!
Just trim a bit.
Excellent!
GA
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extremely well written, the plot is brilliantly crafted. overall, just an awesome story i would greatly appreciate it if you read my story "Perdition"
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Simply breath taking. I love this story and was caught in every work you wrote. The mere idea of digging graves, preparing and burying the bodies of the dead is heart breaking in and of itself but to write it so vividly and wonderfully as this. You really looked into it, thought about it, and finally wrote it in a way that leaves no question in the end. I myself a person who is unable to comprehend numbers and can only see each person who is dead as that one person really could comprehend the gravediggers words. A fresh look at the Iraq war and those who take part (forcefully or willingly) in it.
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chills
i actually got the chills at the part where he said he's buried the clothes of a man's son, just for his peace. this is a dreadfully awesome story. falling in love with a grave digger. wow. this is such a great way to get people interested in current events. BRAVO, CHAP, BRAVO.
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Thank you so very much! I am glad I portrayed this story in a way that could persuade people to become more interested in current events. I think you will be even more chilled to know that the part about the son's clothes was developed from the real life story of a Kurdish gravedigger. It's deadful stuff, but it is real.
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Wow, interesting read. I really enjoyed it, especially the ease and enjoyability of your flow.
A couple comments... This might have just been me, but the language of Farhad seemed a little out of place. The dialogue was well written, and I realize they are speaking in translated Arabic, but it feels a bit too "English" if you know what I mean. The phrases seem too common, and the wording doesn't seem exactly realistic. Granted, I know nothing of Arabic, so I might be incorrect. I think though that if you looked at that a bit, the whole story would benefit and draw the reader in more.
Also, I found myself wondering a couple times exactly how Sarah became so comfortable and integrated into this community. She's a foreign relief worker, and yet doesn't seem out of place at all. Maybe that's because she was ignored by the community at large excepting Farhad, so she wasn't made to feel an outsider? Or Farhad had taken her under his wing in more than gravedigging, and introduced her to the culture and community? I dunno, but maybe expanding on that theme would be a nice touch.
Anyway, great job
beginning: 3, language: 4, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 3, characters: 4.
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Excellent comment, thank you very much! Engineering Farhad's language was particularly difficult, and I agree with you that the phrases appear slightly too English. That is something I will definitely look into for my next draft. Also, adding in maybe a sentence or two about the alienation of a foreign relief worker might be a nice touch, I will consider it.
Once again, thank you for your great comment. I am glad you enjoyed the read!
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