Zainab
written by: David Thoenen
The men in clean green uniforms screamed filthy blasphemies, defiling the name of The Prophet as they marched the living out of the village. The dead lay as chaotic mounds of rags – shapeless forms, lumps sprawled against the shabby beige walls of houses that had been homes but now would sit empty. There were no wounded.
The militia had arrived as the villagers were preparing for morning prayer. The village was dark, the children sleeping, waiting for the sun to rise over the olive trees. Zainab’s mother and father were at the well washing for prayer.
Zainab was alone in the house, preparing to join her parents at the well. She was twelve, still new to her obligations for daily prayers. As she secured her hejab, two men moved through the door. When she heard their steps moving across the dirt floor, she turned and stumbled, her hejab falling to the floor beside her prayer mat. With their rifles aimed at her chest, the men shouted at her to leave the house. Obeying, she reached for her scarf and draped it over her head and shoulders. One militiaman led her barefoot through the door as the other searched the small house.
Zainab cried when she heard the shots coming from the direction of the well. It began with bursts from automatic weapons. As it continued, the popping sound moved away from the center of the village. Children and older adults soon huddled with her in the gloom of dawn, crying and screaming. They were herded to the sheep pen behind the houses and ordered to sit on the ground. Terror took control of Zainab’s body. She sobbed as she sat in the muck, her body shaking. After several minutes, the shooting receded to scattered pops and then stopped.
When the sun rose, the villagers were ordered to stand. The killers prodded them toward the olive grove beyond the houses. The women’s loud laments died away to soft sobs. There were no more shots. The village was quiet.
As she followed, Zainab glanced to her left. A pile of dead lay under Abu Jamil’s orange tree. A rich aroma of orange lay in the morning air as the glow of dawn fired the tree’s white blossoms. Her father lay on the ground facing the column, eyes closed, right leg twisted under the left, feet bare in preparation for prayer, white shirt soaked in blood. She searched but did not see her mother. She stopped crying. Her face became a blank mask.
The living moved past the dead. Trucks were waiting in the peaceful shade of the grove. Zainab climbed into the crowd in the back of a truck that would carry her away from her village and its ancient olive trees. She never returned. She never learned the fate of her mother.
