Forever Numb By Yalda Asmatey April-Sept. 1999 Lemar-Aftaab I stand here, alive, yet in a sense dead, numb. I think of everything which has vanished into the air like the debris of war. The war which deprived me of my life. I'm older now, but the memories lie awake in my mind. I remember so vividly those first few days. The Russians had just bombed nearby and there was feeling in the air that our village was next. The soldiers stood at the top of the hill looking down, searching for their next prey. We could not believe the stories we were hearing. It was said the soldiers were raping girls. I was enraged by such a thought. I had two older sisters, Laila and Zalikha, and I imagined them being the next victims. It made me so mad. How could they do that to my sisters? I was only nine. It never crossed my mind it could be me. My father was a man of his word. He was a judge at a nearby courtroom. At the time of the war, the Russian goal was to pursue anyone who withheld information, or was against the Communist rule. My father was part of an underground society, "The Workers Against Communism," as they called it. As weeks passed we could tell the war was at a critical stage. I remember the day they found my father. We were all home and the doors were kicked in. The dust which rose from the ground covered the faces of the animals who walked in. These big men entered yelling, a precursor to the violence which was to come. Their expressions will remain forever in my mind, cold and hollow. I looked at my parents. My mother had fallen to her knees yelling for her life. My father, the man of dignity, stood by my mother and said, "It's all right, only a few more minutes." My sisters were lucky. They ran to their rooms and crawled under their beds. They were very, very quiet, so as not to be heard by the soldiers. Questing followed: "What is this, 'Worker' business?" "I have heard of no such thing." My father replied. "Liar! We have information," the soldiers aimed their guns at my father's head. "But I tell you, I know nothing." "You think that we are fools?" In a moment my oldest brother was forced to bend down in front of my parents. "You are liars." The soldier aimed his gun at my brother and cried out! "Liars!" I shall count to five and this boy will die. "ONE!" I looked at my brother. He was shaking and crying. "TWO!" I looked at my mother. She had her mouth open, but no sound came. "THREE!" I thought of my sister and what they must be thinking. "FOUR!" I looked at my father. He was looking at his only son. I closed my eyes. "FIVE!" And that was it. Bullets pierced my brother's body . My mother moaned. She picked up my brother in her arms and began to pray. "Dear God, why my brother?" I could not do anything. I stood and stared at his thick dark blood. I looked at the soldier. My eyes fixed on his cold dead soul. I could see it hanging there behind his eyes like a shadow. He could feel me looking at him, he spun and caught my eye. I grew instantly aware of what was to happen and started to run. But he caught me. He pushed me against the wall and looked at my father. "This here is your daughter, no? Very pretty. Tell me more about this 'Worker' business." And my father stood there. Silent! I lost my breath as the soldier threw me onto the floor and ripped my clothes. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes and all I could feel was the wet breathing of the soldier over me. I could hear my father crying across the room, whimpering like a baby. It was then I realized that I was not. I wasn't crying. I was just lying there. I could feel nothing. I left my body. The soldier hit me across the face. I opened my eyes to see him standing over me pulling up his pants. There was blood all over him. My blood. He kicked me and spit on my face. I just lay there. I didn't move. I couldn't move. The soldier yelled and my father closed his eyes. I could tell what he was doing. He was trying to push it out, to pretend it wasn't happening. He kept his eyes closed the whole time they were beating him. They knew he was a member of the Workers Against Communism, but they could not get him to say it and so they beat him to death. They continued beating him long after he had died. Right there in our living room. I lay beside him, quiet, bloody and numb. The soldiers killed my brother and my father and left. My house was very quiet for a long time after they left. As was I. And then we started to pick up the pieces, to bury our loved ones and move on. The soldiers had killed every male in our household, we would be doomed here. We would have to immigrate. We saved and eventually moved to America, my mother and me. In the months before we left, Laila was arrested stealing from a supply depot in town. They killed her. Zalikha did not want to leave. She blamed my father for what had happened and chose not to leave. She died last year. My mother and I moved to San Francisco. She got a job as a seamstress. She died last week. I knew as I lay there on the floor of my living room back then, that I would be the last one, the very last to survive. Despite what those soldiers took from me, they would not kill me, I was meant to live on, a silent, numb reminder of the atrocities of a senseless war. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Copyright © 1999 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.