Blown

Someone I know just came to see me. He is from the South, where the troops are waging their war. He came to tell me that his daughter in the southern capital had been hit by a remote controlled, roadside bomb. His daughter died from her injuries: wounds to the left upper torso and the complete loss of her right hand. I suspect she bled to death. Hearing the story it transpires that those responsible had rigged a cart with the improvised explosive device (IED) and engaged a young boy to push it. Someone noticed there was a bomb on it and the holder of the remote detonated early, killing of course the young cart pusher and 14 other civilians in the near vicinity. When he came to me today he had photos in his hands. I thought he was going to show me pictures of his daughter as a child, as another woman I know had done last week - her daugther was assassinated by men on a motorcycle two months ago.

The pictures he showed me however were not of his daughter in happy days but pictures of her in her death shroud before being buried. As I was looking at this man and had the photos of his dead daughter in my hand I wanted to take a picture of him holding up the image of his daughter, I wanted to make it impactful somehow, to draw attention to the real people whose bodies are ripped apart by IEDs here and whose families get used to losing people.

Tom Scott did that with Blown...

I wheeled my mind through sandy streetsenvisaged the scene,
the multiple beatsof heart and mind and duties bound
sacrifice, service, all that’s woundin the wire and dust, chemical equations
the call to commit, religious persuasions
that evoke a fight beyond tangible means
the encompassing essence to which one leans
blinding emotion, of birth and death
leaves a heart, no solace, bereft
searching reason, no reason I find
only the cobbles that bump the ride
the delicate, intricate, hidden and sealed
awaiting a trigger, a figure, a yield
the corpses of war, the ghosts of peace
dance together upon tarmacadam streets
that lead and function, guide and save
the sons of material, daughters deprave
that serve a purpose unto themselves
secure a voice, mute, that tells
of nihilistic virtue, dressed in ink
a tick, tick, boom, incapacity to think
for distance silences realities unknown
sweaty thumb, depression,
sanctity
blown.

Tom Scott 4th July 2010