{"id":2173859,"date":"2007-10-11T20:03:43","date_gmt":"2007-10-11T12:03:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/?p=2173859"},"modified":"2023-04-13T05:26:27","modified_gmt":"2023-04-13T05:26:27","slug":"the-brutality-of-a-rope","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/2007\/10\/11\/the-brutality-of-a-rope\/","title":{"rendered":"The brutality of a rope"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

By<\/em> Azarin Sadegh<\/em><\/a>    
\n <\/p>\n

\n

Still dark. A rope and torn nails. Emptiness beneath steps. I\u2019m innocent. Stares. Faceless women in black.<\/p>\n

The early morning of a summer of burning suns. My father pushes the crowd. The crowd is pushing me. I slip through the legs, hips and shoulders to find a gap. I rise and don\u2019t reach. I walk and don\u2019t move. I sit on the dusty road. Nothing happens. I am bored. I look for the green pebbles or blue. I want to make a wall around me. Half sky, half forest. But the world has only grey pebbles.<\/p>\n

\nThe brutality of a rope. Someone pushes me inside a hole. I stretch. My legs hurt. I weigh one million. She isn\u2019t coming.<\/p>\n

A straight line of ants follow each other from one hole to another. I admire their obedience. A half cigarette on the ground burns. My toes push it closer to the line of marching ants. They panic. I am filled with the pleasure of breaking the rules. Someone crashes an ant.<\/p>\n

\nMy eyes sweat. My hands touch the coldness of my wet shirt. I\u2019m cold. I never told you the truth. Where are you? I\u2019ve killed for you.<\/p>\n

\nI hold cigarette\u2019s burning side by my chosen ant, escaping. The doomed insect shivers and melts and flies like a little bird, only for this one millennium of a second. Awaiting a peaceful end, the time moves and the ant\u2019s hollow shell smokes without a sound. The wind holds the invisible ashes. The rhythmic commotion of insects, and the harmony of the voyeurs grasping the immorality of an execution. How difficult is to restore order out of this vain extent of chaos?<\/p>\n

Nobody\u2019s watching. She isn\u2019t here. I\u2019ve died alone. Where is heaven?<\/p>\n

\nMy father stands by me. His shadow protects my innocent games. I find another ant, and still another. I am sick. The tang of acid formic in the air, on my tongue. I decide to believe in heaven, filled with infinite lines of striding ants, carrying food, following the line, keeping the order, having a purpose. The sound of cheers and then, something falls. The breeze forms this ambiguous dance of hanging legs, blessed or wicked. The macabre sound of a weeping woman, unnamed in black chador, silences the crowd. I look down. No more ants. Only two empty holes. My father caresses my hair and whispers: \u201cDon\u2019t watch. Don\u2019t watch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nDead? Not yet. A cry, a weep, she\u2019s here. Watch me now. I\u2019m still alive. The sun is all red, shining beneath my feet. And the sky, colorless, in my fist. I fall. I\u2019m inside the dead leaves of past autumns. Vanishing. I\u2019m weightless. A wall painted in green and blue is rising, half ocean, half earth. I\u2019m enfolded. I inhale and don\u2019t breathe. It\u2019s heaven.<\/p>\n

\u201cI watch Father, I watch, but I don\u2019t see.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By<\/em> Azarin Sadegh<\/em><\/a>    
\n <\/p>\n

\n

Still dark. A rope and torn nails. Emptiness beneath steps. I\u2019m innocent. Stares. Faceless women in black.<\/p>\n

The early morning of a summer of burning suns. My father pushes the crowd. The crowd is pushing me. I slip through the legs, hips and shoulders to find a gap. I rise and don\u2019t reach. I walk and don\u2019t move. I sit on the dusty road. Nothing happens. I am bored. I look for the green pebbles or blue. I want to make a wall around me. Half sky, half forest. But the world has only grey pebbles.<\/p>\n

\nThe brutality of a rope. Someone pushes me inside a hole. I stretch. My legs hurt. I weigh one million. She isn\u2019t coming.<\/p>\n

A straight line of ants follow each other from one hole to another. I admire their obedience. A half cigarette on the ground burns. My toes push it closer to the line of marching ants. They panic. I am filled with the pleasure of breaking the rules. Someone crashes an ant.<\/p>\n

\nMy eyes sweat. My hands touch the coldness of my wet shirt. I\u2019m cold. I never told you the truth. Where are you? I\u2019ve killed for you.<\/p>\n

\nI hold cigarette\u2019s burning side by my chosen ant, escaping. The doomed insect shivers and melts and flies like a little bird, only for this one millennium of a second. Awaiting a peaceful end, the time moves and the ant\u2019s hollow shell smokes without a sound. The wind holds the invisible ashes. The rhythmic commotion of insects, and the harmony of the voyeurs grasping the immorality of an execution. How difficult is to restore order out of this vain extent of chaos?<\/p>\n

Nobody\u2019s watching. She isn\u2019t here. I\u2019ve died alone. Where is heaven?<\/p>\n

\nMy father stands by me. His shadow protects my innocent games. I find another ant, and still another. I am sick. The tang of acid formic in the air, on my tongue. I decide to believe in heaven, filled with infinite lines of striding ants, carrying food, following the line, keeping the order, having a purpose. The sound of cheers and then, something falls. The breeze forms this ambiguous dance of hanging legs, blessed or wicked. The macabre sound of a weeping woman, unnamed in black chador, silences the crowd. I look down. No more ants. Only two empty holes. My father caresses my hair and whispers: \u201cDon\u2019t watch. Don\u2019t watch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nDead? Not yet. A cry, a weep, she\u2019s here. Watch me now. I\u2019m still alive. The sun is all red, shining beneath my feet. And the sky, colorless, in my fist. I fall. I\u2019m inside the dead leaves of past autumns. Vanishing. I\u2019m weightless. A wall painted in green and blue is rising, half ocean, half earth. I\u2019m enfolded. I inhale and don\u2019t breathe. It\u2019s heaven.<\/p>\n

\u201cI watch Father, I watch, but I don\u2019t see.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[16],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2173859"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2173859"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2173859\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5196220,"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2173859\/revisions\/5196220"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2173859"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2173859"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.stopchildexecutions.com\/scenewsarchive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2173859"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}