MAHDI: On Healing

You go to Arlington Cemetery to stand before the eternal flame that overlooks the Lincoln memorial. You walk up the slope in the thick, Washingtonian humidity that indicates spring is here and the scorching summer is near. The restless hours of the night before, of Boston police taking back the city from its fear and grief, the radio static still sounds in your ears. But you don’t want to talk about that. You don’t want to talk about flames erupting from hotels you remember exploring as a child in Bombay. You don’t want to talk about the chills you feel to this day whenever the exploded London bus appears on a television screen. You don’t want to talk about the lump in your throat when the Boston marathon headlines hit your computer screen. You remember you have never dialed, messaged, texted or tweeted so swiftly in your life. The eyewitness video of the screaming is on loop on every news channel you see. You don’t want to see it anymore, but a need for any information paralyzes you. You watch President Obama’s anger and shame at Congress’s inability to pass background checks on gun control.

You look for peace from the porch of Arlington House. Washington looks small from here. Gravel crunching under others’ steps is the only sound up here. The American flag flies at half mast. The amphitheater you see as you continue to wander is empty. You see two men sitting with their backs to you on the benches side by side, their heads and shoulders are arched downward in reflection. The sky has clouded over; rain is expected later in the afternoon. You start to see the world in grayscale due to the muffled rays of sun.

You carefully tread down the steps leading to the Tomb of the Unknowns. The soldier currently on duty paces silently up and down in front of the marble slab that reads, “Here Rests In Honored Glory An American Soldier Known But To God.” The sound of chimes permeates the thick air. It’s noon and the changing of the guard ceremony begins. You remain standing as you hear the sound of the wooden rifle hitting the soldiers’ gloved palms. In perfect unison the two soldiers march across from one another, a crisp click of their heels breaks the silence. You stare beyond the ceremony to the trees that lie beyond the structure. Without noise, inconspicuous, the ceremony comes to a natural end. You contrast the silence with the clicks of your camera.

The quiet is broken once the ceremony concludes. You think it’s all over. You’re told, “This is a part that I haven’t seen before.”

The soldier explains to the audience that this is a changing of the wreath ceremony. All present must stand up and hold their right palm over their hearts. All those in the armed forces must salute.

You look on as the existing wreath is hoisted from its place in front of the tomb. The new wreath reads, “Parkway Middle School” in gold, flowing script. Four children from the school make their way toward the center from the steps behind you. They carefully place the new wreath on its perch. The weight of the occasion rests in their facial expression. You’re moved by the music the soldier with the trumpet makes. Notes fade into the atmosphere and delight your ears as the vibrato eventually cedes like quieted ocean waves. You glance to your right. There’s a strange unison felt amongst a crowd of strangers. You have never seen these people before. You will never see them again, but for these few minutes, you share a powerful moment. Once it ends, you linger for a few seconds before walking away.

The gravestones extend for miles in each direction as you continue walking amongst the blossoming flowers and rambling paths. You see names of individual soldiers, names of their wives and children. Messages detail who they were, what position they held and what they meant to those they loved. You eventually make your way back to the eternal flame and look down. John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis on dark large plaques stare back at you. You turn and read the inscriptions that face toward the city of Washington: The memorials, the Capitol, the White House and everything in between.

One day later, on a Sunday morning the London Marathon is underway. Thousands of runners stand amassed at the starting line to pay their tribute to this past Monday’s events with a moment of silence. These resilient participants weren’t just determined to reach the finish line for their cause with black ribbons pinned on their chests, they were doing it for Boston. You think back to words spoken from an anonymous source, “Be soft do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.” You remember all that you’re thankful for: Friends, family, school, being alive. Together, you begin to heal.

Sofiya Mahdi is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences studying abroad in Washington, D.C. She can be reached atsofiya218@gmail.com.