The night of the WTC bombing, when the terrorists were stepping onto their connecting flights about 7pm our time; the planes hit just before 11pm our time) I wrote this, still in the grip of the fantastic BBC doco on Afghanistan that was on the tv the night before. It's based on an exercise where you name three objects, start with an empty landscape, add a character, then combine all of them together, so it’s a bit jumpy


This is the land that is no man's land.
It lies between the hills and the river.
It is green and fertile - except where the shells and rockets have torn up brown scars of soil.
From the hill. the village would look (if there was anyone to see) pretty; idyllic; quaint.

Its pink roofs and hub of streets set around the well are made for and from time. It could be 2,000 years ago, 3,000 – except for the gross rusted tank blown open at the village gate

Satellites today can produce images down to a 70 cm resolution. Thi is what a satellite would see: 75 cm holes in the roof of the village mosque.
Two by one metre mounds of dirt beside the road leading down to where the bridge used to be.
But nothing moving.

Beside the river, an upturned boat shows its beam to the sky.

An oar protruding from the boat starts to move. A hand, small soft and brown, appears, clinging to the oar as if led by it.
Mohammed is four years old. His cark coiled hair was his mother’s pride; she would wash it daily and towel it dry with the hem of her burkha, secretly breathing in the scent of her only son.
He has his father’s eyes; black, without pupils, a little sharp at the corners. He’s not supposed to be down here at the boats; he can’t remember why he is here.
A streak of scabby dried blood is frozen mid-flow on his rounded left cheek; it’s not his blood.
Mohammed emerges, looks around for his sisters. He’s never been alone before. He knows he should be frightened, but he feels strong, clever, like a naughty four-year-old who’s got away with something.
He thinks he’ll surprise his mother. He’ll bring her water; it’s almost time to eat and she will be cooking in the courtyard, always needing water.
He’s lost his shoes, but the heat of the day is gone and the dust of the road is soft between his toes, rising in gentle puffs under his bare uncalloused soles.
The world is his.
Beside the road, there is a piece of long wire from the fence. The fence burned last week, to cook Mohammed’s dinner. He picks up the wire and pokes at things with it as he walks up the road toward the well and his home beyond.
There is no one at the well. This means Mohammed does not have to wait. But there is no water in the bucket either, and the rope is cut. Mohammed decides his mother will have to fetch her own water. He’s hungry now, and soon his father will be calling prayers.

Mohammed’s house has a courtyard before it, with the door to the house set well back into the wall. No one is in the courtyard and for the first time in Mohammed’s life his mother does not appear to his call.
He steps into the house and sees his mother lying on the floor. This so surprises him that he doesn’t even hear the boom as shelling starts again.

Mohammed steps forward to poke at his mother with his piece of wire, half fearfully, half cheekily; and the roof comes down.