When they first put on the blindfold, they ask me, How do you see?
I shake, though I’m in my own home. I can hear them rummaging through the dresser my grandfather had made for his new bride decades ago. Furniture falls to the floor. Breakable things are broken in a horrific cacophony of loss. There is no music here. Only discordance.
I can’t see at all. The darkness stifles me, and I whip my head around to wherever I can hear noise clattering, and it clatters all around me.
I become dizzy, like an ever-spinning top, and stagger with my hands outstretched in a hopeless attempt to catch myself before I fall.
A foot catches my leg and helps me crash to the ground.
A hand tourniquets my arm and brings me to my feet.
The silence is worse than the noise. It’s flat and endlessly deep at the same time. Silence is the kind of landscape in which you become lost, in which you can forget you ever were at all.
Out of the nothing, a fingertip touches my cheek, barely pressing on the skin, it could be a fly or my imagination. And I flinch.
Other hands emerge from the ether to grab at mine and cinch them together with a wild and biting wire.
They remove me from my home, bound like this, like a criminal.
I trip and stumble on my stairs as a newly born blindman. We— I presume there is still a we though I only know them as the detached hands touching me and the footsteps indicating there are feet and legs and bodies attached to them, though unproven in this dark space—we descend to the front entrance at the street level.
Inside the confines of my home the relative quiet gets bigger. It sits on me with a long face full of judgement.
Outside, chaos reigns.
I am shoved onto a surface, which is alternating hard and soft, and the soft parts breathe. An engine roars. Exhaust peppers the air with greasy smoke. I jerk against the other men who presumably share the bed of the pick-up truck with me, and thus share my fate, as the truck stutters into motion.
I’m not even sure the men closed my front door.
There is shouting. There is screaming. There is angry, terminal dissent, and righteous indignation.
When we stop, it is like we are propelled into another time and space. This is not my country. These are not my people.
We are extracted and lined up and stripped of our blindness.
The square is full of people with angry faces. Mob, this is what a mob looks like. They are boiling with rage and hungry for violence. That is the only way to pacify them, to bring about some kind of resolution. Give them violence.
Men in military fatigues, men carrying guns grab me by the shoulders and force me to my knees. Pain explodes in me as I make contact with the stone. They proclaim I am impure. They boast how they will save others by getting rid of me, as if a human being was a piece of trash to be crumpled and thrown into a landfill.
The children in the crowd launch stones at me. They bludgeon my head, and peel with laughter at each precise strike. Women scurry up to spit on me.
You are judged, I am told. By God and by his good and righteous People.
I am aching rot. I am prostrate. I am humbled. I am shaking so badly I only see the world around me in strobed blurred images. And then she appears. She walks away from me, away from this tableau of endings, and she is the clearest thing in my world. Even though she walks away, she quells my shaking.
Just before they blind me again to take me away to wherever the impure infidels are kept (if we are kept), she turns and gazes at me. Her almond-shaped eyes, the color of obsidian, hold kindness. They hold grace and strength and hundred other things that can’t be named, but felt. She rotates her arm so her palm faces me, and she uncurls her fingers in one graceful movement. The beautiful arches, swirls and patterns of words lay hidden there in her palm. I alone see them. I alone read them.