creative writing 2.4

Beams of light from the narrow slitted windows was the sole thing that pierced the all encompassing darkness. Accentuating the swirls of dust that filled the building. Vibrant red curtains adorned the entrance way. Behind them stood a tough oaken door. A door that was customarily open and inviting. Now it barred them from the outside world, the last barrier. From inside, the mosque felt meager and cramped, yet in their hamlet it dominated the skyline. Guarding them, watching over them. The homes of the village radiated out from the mosque like heat off the desert sands. Symbolizing all that these people held dear. A connection to the heavens. Uncomfortable warmth from the hudled bodies could easily rival the sweltering desert sun outside of the sanctuary. Sweat and dust were the smells that penetrated every corner of the main chamber. Rushing straight up peoples noses. Suffocating the room. Previously a place of prayer and peace, the mosque had now transformed into the last sanctuary for a cornered people. Prayer mats cast to the side. The prayers were left unuttered. Cast out of every home they knew, by a tide of authoritarianism tyranny these people were mortified. A red wolf had chased them from the cities and fertile lands, they were sheep surrounded and about to be penned in.

Listen, an engulfing crack splits the air, a gun maybe, or maybe a pile of bricks toppeling. Whatever it was, it stirred the sheep trapped inside the mosque. Panic began to haunt the crowd. The smallest ones cried, whilst the largest ones wished they could cry. Noise surrounded them. Barks of commands. Howls of anger. Air thick with anticipation. A crash of splintering wood echos around. The mosque door is ripped from its hinges. Rushes of light. Protection torn away. Pure fear in people’s eyes. Fear of uncertainty. The last hopes of hiding away were gone. Face to face with the wolves. No skin could be seen, they were adorned in dehumanizing black body armor. Eliminating their empathy. A shiny rifle was raised and brandished at the crowd. Orders screamed. Shots let off. Anxious crowds directed towards clustered trucks.

Looking around as shadows move through the village. Squatting beige earth buildings don’t seem homely anymore, nothing feels safe. Gunshots and shouts had replaced the sounds of the bustling market. The sliver of crescent moon and singular patriotic star burnt and replaced by the harshly vibrant red and gold of the oppressors banner. Frigid metal chains bind the people. Cold and imposing against the skin. The distant sun is just touching the mountains near the horizon. Twilight is racing up upon them. Feverish days fade quickly into freezing nights in the desert. Looking across from the rumbling truck there was a dark nondescript mass closer to the town center, its shape wasn’t clear but the people knew what it was. A pile of those who weren’t strong enough to be relocated in the trucks. A pile of those the wolves deemed unnecessary or undesirable. A pile that contained friends and family. People all around were sobbing, inconsolable mothers, fathers and lost orphans, cast into the winds of a harsh existence by those who could not care less about them. A fragile old skeleton of a man is pushed to the ground by a faceless guard. The truck pulls away without him. Wondering if he survived is pointless.

Feel as the biting cold pricks the skin into goosebump. The lights of the trucks are all that fracture the imposing midnight. Behind them was the rest of the convoy, tiny dots of light, like stars. A long line across the desert flats behind them. Inside, the group of prisoners were huddled together, maybe for warmth or comfort or a false sense of security in numbers. There is one man on the outside, a young man, still full of life and hope but crimson blood clotted around a gash in his head. It looked agonizing but healable. Maybe someone would help but it was doubtful. Suddenly the truck stops, skidding on the sand. People are jostled and thrown to the floor. Before they can react they are issued out of the truck. Landing on tender knees. The prisoner camp stands in front, a looming set of unyielding concrete walls. Grey and devoid of happiness. Fences of steel wire ring the outside. Spines and spikes atop each support. Search lights sweep over the walls one shines straight down upon the group. It’s so powerful that the warmth from the light can be felt eating away at them. Whilst stumbling through the gates more of the camp is revealed. An immense sign with the words Láojiào suǒ “reeducation camp” sprawled across it in bright red. Those words don’t sound friendly. Further into the camp is a cramped series of lodgings organised into structured rows. Roofs of cold cobalt blue tin. The ground is nothing but solid concrete. No life, not even a single lavender blossom or desert flower could crawl its way up through the flooring. This is simply a place of despondency and distress. A place to die. A slaughterhouse for sheep run by the wolves who despise them.

Commands are barked at you, “get on your knees”. Collapsing to the ground you can feel the last crumbs of strength subsiding. Grabbed from behind by a chinese officer, a blindfold is placed over your weary eyes. You are pushed forward. The cold concrete meets your aching knees. You let out a singular prayer for your family. For all the Uighurs left for dead. For all those held in dark camps in the desert.