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| Mohammad Mohiedine Anis, 70, sits in his destroyed bedroom listening to music. Joseph Eid, WaPo |
In that viral photo of Aleppo, from the Ides of March, 2017, an old man, Mohammad Anis, sits on the bed, the fallen headboard like the lid of a sarcophagus. He sits, with pipe in hand, he’s pushed back the bedspread covered in plaster dust to make room for his thoughts. He stares at the gramophone, the needle poised, the hand crank at the ready. He contemplates at the possibility of music during a time when the idea of home is gone, the vinyl record is done. Only the hissing remains. The floor is strewn with rubble, jigsaw puzzles, pieces of plaster ceiling and wall have joined him. Who will find the hard edges to solve that puzzle? The man from Aleppo refuses to leave his home, the city of his ancestors. We can’t see his two cats napping in a wicker chair in a larger photo. The shutter is askew. There’s a crib in the corner by a petchka stove. A samovar. A pile of books, pages fluttering like bird wings, the window transoms are open to let the morning air in, but the glass is shattered by the impact of missiles. His collection of old cars, gone, he makes plans to rebuild for his children, children. A remnant of a lace curtain luffs in the breeze, a reminder of a gentler time. There is a lull, a momentary silence of grief embedded in the midst of this senseless jihad of a war. He raises his pipe to his mouth but the ember has gone out. He has no words left to explain this life.
First Syria, and now Ukraine, we witness the handiwork of a despotic Putin intent on making war on civilians, we watch the six o’clock news, in real time, with no buffer. In Kharkiv, Ukraine, the photos of war are played out again, like a cinema trailer, only in real time, the entire body of a missile has pierced the ceiling and embedded itself in the floor like a strange pillar or plant. There is no one in the room. Only a mirror and the crucifix on the wall bearing witness. The bed is folded over into a couch. The occupant gone, but alive. Miraculously, the chandelier is intact. The table is set for breakfast, the keyboard covered in thick dust, the rubble on the floor, Soviet era concrete scours the nostrils. On the window ledge, plants in need of watering lean crazily towards the light. The computer screen and television are dressed in dust ghosts as if a child had breathed on them in order to draw a picture. There is no easy way to comprehend these civilian casualties in the midst of a senseless war. Soon the man will return to his flat to survey the damage. Kharkiv holds the line, Mariupol has fallen. My friend Miceál lands in Lviv with medical supplies and 10,000 bodybags. Meanwhile, the midst of all this chaos, a babushka, whose friends are learning the art of the sniper, is baking bread for the Ukrainian soldiers, she is offering bread and salt to welcome us to the world stage.
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