A Dog Died in Bala Murghab

Linda Christanty The small dog collapsed in the street. A soldier had shot it with an

automatic rifle.

I almost dropped my camera. I was really startled.

I had just seen the dog scampering, sni ﬃng the sand and then turning around as if it was confused.

I hadn’t had a chance to take a photo of it. In an instant I heard a child scream, clearly coming from a house, from the sandy brown colored building that stood only twenty meters from where I was standing, holding this camera.

In panic, a boy who seemed to be about six years old ran quickly in the direction of the dying dog, while a woman wearing a light blue burka, who I suspected was his mother, anxiously called her son’s name. It sounded like “Alef”. But the child who was running did not pay any attention to her and continued to run. His dark blue clothes made his fair skin appear even paler.

The frantic woman chased a fter her son who had just passed in front of me. Alef was overcome with unspeakable pain. Unlike his dog that had immediately collapsed, the boy screamed hysterically. No one chased

a fter him except for the woman. The mother and child had their own concerns. No one tried to comfort either of them; everyone chose to keep to themselves.

A number of people around me quickly turned away from the scene or pretended that they did not see what had just happened. They were accustomed to choosing to be blind and deaf at certain moments. When you asked them what they just witnessed, one or two people who dared to speak would surely answer in unison, “We didn’t see anything except the bright clear sky. We didn’t hear anything except the whinny of the donkey.”

Before the soldier shot the dog, I had been taking several photos, aiming my camera at each target.

I had photographed children, women and mothers who stood in their doorways or passed by in the street. There were many children I had photographed children, women and mothers who stood in their doorways or passed by in the street. There were many children

I also took a photo of a young girl in a red dress who was walking through a narrow alley between sandy-colored buildings. She was alone. Her hair was dark brown and tangled. There were white spots on her reddish cheeks. Her bare feet were caked with dust. It seemed as if she had no one in this world. I took several pictures of her and she did not seem to care. She continued to walk as if in a daydream.

I wondered what would happen to this child in the future, ten or fi fteen years from now.

The portraits of children in various places reveal the strength and identities of your future enemies.

In one village, the children look almost cynical when my camera focuses on them. In another village, a girl peeks from behind the door of her house while pointing a toy car in our direction as if it were a pistol, while her older brother greets us in front of the green metal door with the body language of a taunting adversary, as if he was saying, “Hey, try and catch me,” even though he is laughing. But in several other villages the children smile and wave at me. I’ll send you several of their portraits later, both the unfriendly and the friendly ones.

These portraits immortalize something that is bound to disappear. The innocent-faced boy will transform into the bearded man who will

be respected more as his beard grows longer and thicker. The girl will eventually remain only as a memory. She will grow into an adult woman who must service the desires of men, whether she wants to or not.

The soldier stood at the end of the street, not far from the dead dog and he acted as if he had not done anything that had shaken anyone’s soul and destroyed the spirit of another being.

He acted as if the dead dog had already been lying there a long time before he arrived, like the mountains, stretches of sand, fields of grass, hot air, winter wind, and snow storms, that are part of your life because you were born and grew up in this country. Things that must

be there and that you no longer consider to be important.

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The soldier was probably nineteen years old. I stole a look at his face when he spontaneously looked in my direction, in the direction of the running boy, because we were in one line with his shot.

I also did not understand why I was surprised to see the soldier shoot the dog. Wasn’t the dog just an animal, an unthinking creature whose brown fur seemed dirty and unkempt? One bullet had killed a creature that was not at all involved in this war. I was not going to report the incident to the highest commander at the headquarters because I was not under his authority. I would report the shooting of the dog to my supervisor who always responded to each of my complaints in the same way: “I’m sorry that you had to witness something like this.” A fter thinking it over, I decided that I should not write anything more to my supervisor other than o ﬃcial reports. The more I complained, the more di ﬃcult my situation became.

I could be sent home at any time and that would mean that I would not be able to pay for my mother’s medication, Mark’s schooling, and the house mortgage. Perhaps that soldier also had a father or mother who was ill, perhaps he did not have any choices for his future other than being trapped here, like me and everyone else.

Yesterday that soldier and his troop saved me when our convoy passed through the enemy territory. I was in a bulletproof car while the battle was raging around me. My heart was pounding hard. My throat was dry. This was my first experience being trapped in an armed battle as one of the few civilians on duty here.

I’m responsible for supervising the building of turbines, and I never go anywhere without a security escort. I sleep, eat, and work with armed soldiers who clear the way for development by “cleansing” the areas where I work before I arrive.

If you asked me where the enemies who called themselves the “students” are, and what they look like, I would not be able to answer. Their attacks are sudden. They are clever at hiding. You hear a shot or a mortar explosion, but you do not see the shooter or the attacker. You only see the fields of sand and grass and the mountains in the distance.

The “students” forbid girls from going to school and they also rape The “students” forbid girls from going to school and they also rape

14 years old, who no longer wanted to live. Her face had melted like liquid chocolate. One of the “students” had sprayed Shirin’s face with acid because she insisted on going to school.

Our enemies named themselves “students”, but they forbade people to study and become educated. Formerly, they worked with us in repel- ling enemy tanks from the East. However, there is no alliance that is free. Several people here openly say that they do not want us here, but that they also do not want the “students” to hold power. That means that they do not want the modern world, but also do not want the Stone Age. What kind of a world is that? Perhaps a world in-between,

a world when the printing press was just invented and people still ride steam trains. It would still be a backward world, I think.

As soon as the shooting stopped, we knew that we had lost three soldiers in the convoy of troops. When we reached the fortress, I was exhausted and quickly took a shower. A fter that I ate. My weight has increased because I don’t play basketball any longer. You said that my stomach has risen. Like a building. First two floors, then three or four floors.

The soldier was as old as my brother, Mark. Mark now lives in the school dorm; he no longer rents an apartment. You’ve seen a photo of the two of us at Thanksgiving that I sent to you. The father of Mark’s girlfriend, Elena, took our picture when we were at their house. If you look closely, you’ll see that behind us there is a drum set. Elena’s father loves to play music. Besides the drum set, he has an acoustic guitar, saxophone, harmonica, and piano. That night I sang while Elena’s father accompanied me on guitar. My voice wasn’t too bad. I sang Tom Waits’ song, “Romeo is Bleeding”. And today I see dog’s blood.

The body of the little dog seemed to be curled up in a pool of tomato sauce. I instantly lost interest in using my camera. The other soldiers around me ignored it. One of them glanced briefly in the direction of the dead dog then returned to surveying the houses and the area around him.

So this handsome boy was the owner of the poor dog. If it were not here, I would hold him and hug him, try to convince him to forget his sadness, like I usually try to comfort you when you are depressed So this handsome boy was the owner of the poor dog. If it were not here, I would hold him and hug him, try to convince him to forget his sadness, like I usually try to comfort you when you are depressed

The boy had almost reached the dog’s body, but the soldier would not let him touch the object he desired. Before the little pale hand touched the carcass of his beloved dog, I saw the soldier quickly reach out, grab the dog’s body and throw it as far as he could to the other side of the street.

The dog’s blood dripped to the ground, splattering in the air. The dog’s carcass landed in front of an old man. The man was

startled and he took several steps backward. I’m sure the edge of his robe was splattered with the dead dog’s blood. I saw him quickly enter his house.

Alef—indeed the name I heard that sounded like “Alef”—howled. His body shook violently. The woman that I suspected was his mother reached his side. She quickly embraced Alef and then carried him away from the pool of dog blood. Alef continued to wail. The woman kept trying to comfort him; she did not dare to look in my direction when they passed in front of me. The woman hastily guided her sobbing son home. I did not take a photo of them. I had lost all interest in taking pictures.

In five more days I will return to Herat, to the Italian army headquarters. Sometimes I can drink wine in their barracks, a bit of med- icine for the boredom. There is not one can of beer in the American army headquarters. General McChrystal has forbidden his troops to drink any alcohol.

I can’t write letters to you very o ften, honey. There isn’t always internet access for writing letters. We take turns using one computer. The telephone signals are not always clear so I can’t contact you o ften.

I sleep in a bunk bed. One room is for eleven people. The sound of someone passing gas can be heard every night. The smell can make you lose your senses instantly. Sometimes the stench makes me want to do something nasty: I imagine hanging a bag of donkey shit in front of the noses of the ones who are fast asleep, so that they will dream of swimming in a mud hole and they’ll be delirious all night long.

In four more months I’ll have a furlough. I want to watch comedy films and eat popcorn. Can you take a vacation then too? Go home and we can get together with our old friends. You didn’t come home at Thanksgiving …

Unconsciously, I take a deep breath. I’m a bit tired. Even though there’s a cool breeze, it’s incredibly hot.

Alef and his mother did not appear again. No one dared to touch the dog’s carcass over there. The soldier who shot the dog suddenly signaled to me. He wanted me to take his picture.

A Dog Died in Bala Murghab