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"Mountain Silence"
Claude AnShin ThomasThe moon rose over a small mud village casting shadows of it about the rocks. The night was full of sounds heard only in these desert mountains. Two figures in desert robes joined the night and in solitude, climbed. They arrived at a point far beyond the village, secluded from the eyes and ears of its sleeping occupants. It was here that they enjoined, in a circle of rocks, their shelter from eyes. This haven contained a peaceful feeling, a residue built up over the 2,000 years of its sanctuary, it's fire pit dark and worn from use with the other remnants of its past visible at every glance. Soon the fire pit once again flickered, offering white glowing coals. The kettle, which lived in this sanctuary, was made ready with tea and a bafoor lay waiting. The two figures smoked their opium, drank the warm tea and spoke together in tones no louder that the mountain winds. They sought to understand the events and circumstances that had brought them together, two of such different worlds, in this place. They spoke in different tongues, each using the others. They drifted in and out of their languages to more adequately understand the subtle nuances of this night conversation.
With the first shades of light blues night began to fade into morning, and one spoke in conclusive tones:
"My life is yours, you gave me freedom; you, my dear one and what of you now. You are certain to be found out, and punishment will be severe."
"My brother shall get you to Turkey; if you go to Ismir, this note shall introduce you to my cousins. They are fisherman, they will get you to Greece.":
The conversation slid into silence. They looked into each other's eyes sharing unvoiceable affinity - embraced - and parted with the onslaught of morning.
In the morning one man left for Turkey with his friends brother, the brother returned to the city to meet his fate. A donkey carried their supplies. The journey would be two weeks on foot. They traveled with each new rising of the stars, the two speaking not a word, walking the mountain passes of the Alborz. The moon offered a secluded silence, conversation was unnecessary.
On the fourth day of the journey to Turkey they made their camp at an unusually high altitude. The air here was so thin that the sun was not at all hindered in its attempt to burn the earth bare of all vegetation. The crispness of that air, coupled with the sun's assault, drove the two into the seclusion of a cave, cool and comforting. Resting the traveler disappeared into the thoughts that had brought him to this journey of solitude.
The noise from the crowded section of the city surrounding the political prison AVIN, rose to a maddening intensity in his mind. He could smell the sweat of the street people, hear the vendors hawking their produce, see the colors of that place, of that night. He was just walking that evening robbing further into the soul of this foreign place, he often did this, he was a traveler, a wanderer. The experience of that evening was now rolling before his eyes. There he was approaching a vendor to buy a glass of freshly made banana milk. This was always a pleasant stop, for the drink was smooth and refreshing, and he could stop, look about him and determine just where he was. He finished his drink and the conversation with the vendor and returned his empty glass. He then set off across the round-about which was directly in front of the prison. Always, when undertaking such and adventure, and believe me, crossing the streets of Tehran with it's traffic, was always an adventure. He was flooded with the illusion of being a broken field runner -- the mine fields of Vietnam. As her reached the opposite side of the round-about in safety he leaped over the iron railing used to contain and direct pedestrians and was promptly greeted by three of his students from the Atomic Energy Commission (Iranian). They shared and enjoyed the formalities of greeting, discussed their purpose for the evening and decided to go for a meal. It was their traditional, Chelow Kebaab. What they did not notice then was what he was now seeing in his dream state with the utmost of clarity. Three men, of ordinary attire, paying unusually close attention to their meeting and following them.
They walked on, all ignorant of what he was now, in his dream state, seeing. It was decided that a shortcut to the restaurant was in order so they plunged into the labyrinth of houses and alleys that took them deeply into the silence of this Asian city.
They would occasionally pass pedestrians, but so engrossed were they in their conversation, and their passing was with such haste, that one barely noticed the other, there were no faces, just the reality of another human presence. Occasionally someone from the group would turn around to check the validity of the senses, but tonight little attention was paid to the presence or lack of presence of anyone else as their meeting was so intimate.
Suddenly, fro nowhere, a barrage of echoes roaring through the alley hit them -- DISSIDENTS! -- TERRORISTS! -- they whirled about, startled by the shattering of the night's silence and he, in his vision, screamed!! Three men in ordinary attire were running down the alley at them, and suddenly guns began to vomit in their faces. For an instant the agony of surprise shackled their legs and erased their minds ability to function. One friend fell to the ground bleeding and another, frantically clutching at the dreamers arms, went down, pulling both of them together onto the dirt street. The war, his war, clutched at him, his training, his experiences in those jungles took over. He rolled -- crawled -- scrambled and in a blur of walls, stars and a mind ticking towards destination, he struck from his cornering. His hands went straight for the knife he carried in his back pocket wishing it were a gun. How many nights, as he walked alone in darkness, had he practiced this move!! The knife slid into his hand open, he was now pure action -- pure reaction, the birth of his training. He was there at that firebase in Vietnam, caught off guard, being over-run. He lunged into the legs and guns, his figure resembling a badger protecting its den. His teeth ripped flesh, his knife hitting the hard bones of the leg, cutting into the softness of the stomach, the gristle of the neck cutting deeply, again and again -- the blood, the screams. This alley was no place, it had been transformed into a land of violence -- war -- it's own dimension.
The tumbling of images settled and he called for his friends. One came and two would stay. The survivors (two of them) in a manic, numbed silence regrouped. They knew they had to flee this scene, so, quickly they plunged deeper into the silence of this city. Their intent was becoming as clear as the Iranian night sky. They had to escape to the mountains. The city lights began fading, the smell of sweating street people disappeared and those night stars were now at arms length as the 5th night began. 9 more and these two mountain travelers would crass the border into Turkey.
As the 9th moon began to rise high over the mountains the silence of the journey had to be broken:
"/we will cross the border into Turkey sometime during this night. The precise moment I do no know, but when the sun rises you sill be nearer your freedom. My brother said I should give you this money. With it, when you reach Antalya, you can travel respectably but until then, you must travel as a European pilgrim returning overland from India. Now my friend we just go silently. When the moon falls we shall sleep, but only for a few hours. Then we will travel by day to a village in the southwest, it is called Colmerik. It is here that we will part."
In silence they traveled, the sun rose, and they slept. He was awakened just as his dreams began, and the two traveled on to Colmerik, a very poor Turkish town. They went directly to the transient part, to the buses. They stopped in a tea house for breakfast. Through their cheese and bread a route was planned to Antalya. There he would buy car and drive to Izmir. The formalities of Turkish custom were exchanged and they said goodbye. He was now on his own.
He entered an overcrowded bus and amidst the other passengers, their animals and other worldly effects he found a seat -- not a bad one -- his traveling companions, two crates of chickens. The engine of the bus started and he pealed an orange. As the bus was pulling out of town he rubbed his eyes and looked for a place to sleep.
The road out of the mountains was dirt, not suitable for cars and the bus stopped frequently at small mud villages. People would get off and people would get on. He would look at them and wonder how and why they came to be here,; Turkish and in these Places? And then the bus would leave again and he would attempt to return to his shallow imitation sleep.
Time blended into the roughness of the road, a movement of beings, shades of night, of day, smells, sounds and then he was there, Dilyarbakir. As the bus pulled into this city it stopped in various sections providing him with the opportunity to pull himself into its reality and he began to think of a bed or a least a spot on the roof of some transient hostel. This thought brought him a measure of comfort. He found a spot, paid his lira and took a place among beggars, derelicts and thieves to rest before leaving in the morning He knew these people well so he covered himself embracing his bundle of clothes and slept lightly. He awoke with the first movement of people and went for tea.
He sat amidst a menagerie of people confined in a small, filthy room that served as a tea house. Not speaking, avoiding eye contact, looking only at the small glass directly in front of him. His thoughts drifted through the layers of tobacco smoke, thick as fog.
Time, with the crack of guns, had lost any and all perspective. He had forgotten just how long ago it was that he had had to fight. He was now part of a blending, invisible like, of customs, cultures, languages, people. He was a part of all movement, a fluid state. His eyes grew heavy and he longed to clean the dirt from his body. The bus began to move, the road became smoother and the passengers less primitive in appearance. His mind wandered off into the desert passing by his window. He dreamed of Antalya, the sea and wondered about yet another change. He smiled knowing that not one person even suspected his flight. It was as thought he had become Turkish!!