There is a church on the outskirts of the desert. I went there once, led by the unknown. I passed a checkpoint and entered the gates. I walked to a fountain in a courtyard, washed my hands, and touched my forehead and my lips with water drawn with a rusted mug. I left my shoes on a threshold of the shrine and stepped inside. I stood by the door, bearing an ordeal of sharp and raw gazes of mourners, piercing me like knives. I closed my eyes and let my senses merge with the rite. After a while, I felt that I became invisible to mourners, like a fly on the wall. I stayed there as long as my legs allowed me to stand. Then, I made myself disappear, leaving my mute prayer and inexplicable presence behind.
In the rugged cemetery outside the church’s walls, I met a desert lark and a dust devil. The lark sang with mourners while flying toward the church. The dust devil whistled while swirling across the sand toward the valley. They met halfway between the river and the desert. For a second, the lark and the dust devil stopped and faced each other in the blazing sun. Mourners sang in the distance while Ka and Ba went their separate ways with the wild ferocity of a jackal, leaving me with vertigo.
I gave my witness to the death of someone whom I never met.
I left my prayer in the desert, humbled by eternity.
I am still there.
Alicja Brownstein
