The Sweltering Sun, Short Story (Not TES Related) Options

[Burnt Sierra]

THE SWELTERING SUN

“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Hussein.”
“Well Hussein, we’re looking for a guide, who can take us safely into the city. The bartender pointed us to you.” I gesture towards the bar we just came out of.
“I can do that.” he replies.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen years old.”
“Seventeen?”
He nods.
“And you think it’s safe to take us around?” I ask.
“As long as we avoid the rockets.”
A prospect I am not as calm about as our young friend here. Daniel, my cameraman, and I are here to take photographs of the ruined city of Mogadishu for the World News section of the Times. A small paragraph with a solitary photograph at best, which will be skimmed over by readers happy that it isn’t happening anywhere closer to them. A fragile cease-fire negotiated between the Ethiopian military and the Clan Elders had ended abruptly five days ago, the city now in the midst of yet another civil war; the latest in a long line to devastate the land. The Ethiopian backed government started shelling the city with heavy artillery and Katushya rockets the following day and there had been a number of clashes between them and the Islamic Insurgents since; both sides using mortar fire and hand held rockets. Hussein didn’t seem unduly worried, but then violent conflict breaking out wasn’t new to this region.

Considering the fact that it’s estimated that more than three hundred people have been killed, a further seven hundred injured, and thousands have fled the city in the last five days the streets of Mogadishu aren’t as deserted as I expect. As soon as we enter the city, two old pick-ups mounted with machine guns cruise past us, the passengers dressed in vests and t-shirts, faces covered in makeshift masks. They don’t stop, but heads turn and stare at us until they turn the corner. In this temporary break between both sides exchanging mortar fire I can hear the gentle sounds of the Indian Ocean and the taste of salt on my tongue carried on the breeze from the sea, the harbour less than a mile from where we are.

“It seems almost peaceful.” I say.
“It won’t last for long.”
We hurry down a narrow side street, blue graffiti spray painted on the high white walls on either side of us, marking the territory. Ahead lies the main street on which is the famous symbol from the previous civil war, The Arch of the People’s Triumph. Even this hasn’t been spared from the fighting, pock-marked by machinegun fire, a sight which despairingly brings to my mind the desecration of a holy place. Larger holes are in the buildings nearby, where they’ve obviously been struck by mortar shells, corners missing showing the foundations inside which are still standing.

“Has anywhere not been hit?”
“Not many places.” he replies, sadly.
“Where do you sleep?”
“Since we’ve been without a government, many of the old buildings; schools, churches and universities which are no longer open, have become refugee camps.” He watches as Daniel takes a few shots of the buildings. “Those who haven’t already fled the city stay there.”
Two jeeps travel slowly along the road towards us, dust rising up behind them as the tyres churn up the dirt. The engines sound ominously low, like a threatening growl of a creature the instant before it leaps. As the jeeps pull up alongside us, two of the men jump out, Kalashnikov rifles pointing at us. Our guide starts speaking to them, rapidly and urgently, the only word I can make out being reporter as he points at me.
“Hussein.” I say softly.
“Yes.”
“Could you ask them if we may take a photo of them?”
He nods, and continues talking quickly. The driver looks at him, raises an eyebrow and answers, and Hussein turns back to me.
“He wants to know if he’ll be on television.”
“In a newspaper, possibly even magazines.” I reply.
Hussein translates this, and the driver replies then smiles as his companion’s laugh.
“He says alright, as long as he doesn’t need makeup.” Hussein says.

As the jeeps drive away, music blaring from the radio, the bass heavily turned up I hear a taste of home.
“Is that rap music they’re listening to?” I ask Hussein.
“K'naan” he says.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s our most famous musician now, even though he lives in Canada.”
“Why is he so popular if he no longer lives here?”
“Because he hasn’t forgotten where he comes from.” he answers simply. “His lyrics are the stories of our lives.”

As the destruction gets worse, the smell hits me. Bad at first, it soon becomes overpowering, until it’s all I can do not to gag. I have to stop for a moment, as I think the Canjeelo I had for breakfast is about to come back up.
“Are you alright?” Hussein asks us.
Daniel and I look at him in horror.
“Just what exactly is that smell?” Daniel demands.
“It’s the bodies.”
“The bodies?”
“Come.” says Hussein. “You’ll see.”

We turn into a wide street, surrounded on each side by houses each painted white, pink or a light pastel shade to keep the heat out. The roofs are made of corrugated metal, many with gaping holes in them from the mortar fire. At the front of each house is a low wooden fence leading to the pavement, with as fine a display of greenery as I’ve seen. Palm trees and bushes sway in the wind. I can’t stop it, I’m violently sick.

Scores of bodies line the streets, some have been shot others have been hit by the rockets. Many are missing body parts, an arm here, a leg there. All of them have been lying here for days. They just lay haphazardly across the street.
“This was the first area the rockets hit.” says Hussein.
“Why has no-one moved them?”
“People are afraid of being shot. This is the first day since the opening that there’s been a break from the fighting. It hasn’t been safe to come out here.”
Daniel has stopped retching by now, and is taking photographs of the carcasses. All the bodies are covered with clouds of flies buzzing around them. Every corpse is rotting. It’s the end of April, in the midst of a tangambili, which is the hottest and most humid time of the year in Somalia, sandwiched between the two monsoon periods. It’s currently sweltering at the 105°F mark as the sun burns down on us.
“Oh my God.” says Daniel. “You could catch something worse than the Bubonic Plague out in this.”
“They need to be buried.” I agree.
“Until the fighting stops, they’ll not be touched.”
“But what of disease?”
Hussein shrugs. “That gets dealt with later still.”

A siren goes off, a long mournful wail reminiscent of an air raid.
“Come.” says Hussein urgently. “We must go now.”
“What’s that?”
“The bombing is about to resume.”
We dash back the way we came, running as fast as we can. All over people are leaving the streets, hiding in buildings. A child of no more than three sits crying in the middle of the road, picked up by a large woman seconds later. To the south we hear loud bangs, followed by screaming. I turn and look. Huge pillars of smoke arise in the air, blowing towards us on the wind, and seconds later the arid taste fills my lungs, causing me to cough. Hussein grabs me, and pulls me along, my hand desperately clinging to the thin fabric of his shirt. Jeeps and pick-ups like the one’s we’d seen earlier pull to screeching halts. Men start jumping off the backs, and begin loading shells into their own mortars and rocket launchers they hold at shoulder height. Then we’re out of sight, running towards the checkpoints, to safety.

Back at the hotel, a bar has been set up for us foreign journalists. I see several colleagues from previous wars, coronations and elections waving to me to come and have a drink with them. I wave back, signalling no. The image of hundreds of rotting corpses is replaying in my mind, over and over again, under the sweltering sun. For the first time in many years, a drink isn’t going to dilute this memory.

On Monday 23rd April 2007 Salad Ali Jeele, Somalia’s deputy defence minister for Somalia's transitional government released this statement.
"The security operation will continue until the city is cleared of all extremists and the government is in full control of the city." He called on civilians in affected areas to move out and "find safer areas until this is over".

[Black Hand]

Man, now I feel all lazy American.

The rendition of this situation is portrayed expertly here, and I even looked up K'naan, listening to it as I type.

[treydog]

“Because he hasn’t forgotten where he comes from.” he answers simply. “His lyrics are the stories of our lives.”

That is a beautiful summary of what ultimately matters.

This is an extremely powerful piece of writing, with vivid descriptions. It also made me think long and hard.

[Acadian]

Gritty. Very gritty. And well-written. You bring the heat, sounds, smells and fear to life.

[mALX]

This was a very powerful write, excrutiatingly powerful. Somalia, but it could have been any one of the many countries in any one of the many wars. Amazing Write!