Category: Creative writing

I was born and raised in the desert, in a small tribe, where the rituals of antiquity were still cherished. 

I still remember our so-called rite of passage that all children had to go through to become tribesmen and women. A reminiscence of the ritual can still be found in every corner of my memory. How can I forget it? After all, becoming a tribesman was the only thing that I wanted or rather knew.

The ritual, my dear reader, was about proving yourself, about earning your place, about overcoming oneself and purging the desire for companionship, which, upon completion, allowed our elders to bestow upon the participant the title of a khan which allowed the tribe members to honorably wear the rings left for them by their ancestors.

The significance of the ritual can easily be understood when we see the seven great tribes renouncing their hatreds and rivalry for three full moons.

During the festive event of the rituals, tigers were sacrificed in the names of our fallen warriors, and a great feast was held in the name of the almighty.

The grandness of the ritual was only matched by my fear of failure. My fear was the sort of cage that trickery and subtlety, which I had none, were needed to break from. Believe me when I tell you, my dear reader, that aboard that cage hope seemed lost and the future looked dim. I then knew that in order to become a tribe member a significant appliance of courage is needed, of which, again, I had none.

The drums and the hums of the elders were getting louder the higher the moon rose in the sky.

The louder the sounds rose the more scared I felt. The people feasted and danced, sang and drank, but their escalated ecstasy and mayhem only escalated my fears and insecurities, but the sudden halt followed that festive explosion announced the commencement of the ritual.

The Crow, our tribe leader, with carrot-colored skin, painted especially for this occasion, summoned the participants to him.

He said, “times are changing, and so is our tribe, and this filthy ritual is to be abolished”, and so it was.

I remember that from the garage window, I saw her smiling and running up the stairs picking up the chocolate pieces that I had left her. From the bedroom window, which was the destination of my chocolate trail, I saw her for the last time.

“Is this the only thing that you remember?” Inquired my roommate with a sly smirk. I ignored him, like I always did, sinking deeper into my thoughts. ‘I also remember waking up surrounded by strangers listening to the TV reporter saying:

 “Baghdad in ruins. It has been three days since the bombardment. It has been three days since the Americans invaded us. It has been three days since we started fighting back. The stakes are high but we will never submit.”

I remember fainting, and waking, and fainting, again and again.

I remember the first words I was able to utter addressing, who I thought is the Dr, before blacking out for, god knows how long, ‘am I going to make it?’’

I made it, but so did my roommate whom I have been living with for 13 long years but have still not been able to look him in the eye without averting mine in fear. Time didn’t help soften his war inflicted deformities, his one leg, one eye, and half-burned face. 

“What else do you remember? Asked the one-eyed fiend.

‘I remember ….’

“Look at me” He Interrupted saying.

‘I remember …’ I stuttered

“LOOK AT ME”

I saw his deformed countenance transform. He shrieked and wried then looked me directly in the mirror and said “I remember my dead family”