Hope (Day of the Disappeared)

Somewhere in the territory of the former Russian Empire, in the conquered lands of the Mongol Tatars, the plains and mountains once traversed by the Scythians, there is a labour camp. Perhaps it is mining gold, or mining coal, or uranium. It might be making bricks from clay out of the ground. It’s north of Arkhangelsk, it’s south of Grozny. West of Kyzyl, east of Lugansk. It’s as hidden and as well-known as the gulag.

The inmates here work all day digging things out of the ground. Heavy things; useful, valuable, prized. It’s hard work. The fences around are very high, or perhaps there are just untraversable mountains and steppe, forest and tundra on all sides, and it’s impossible to see a way over, through, beyond.

It’s East of the sun, in the land where the moon lives.

Here they all are, the missing ones, the ones we dream about. They are labouring here for things out of the ground, for gold or for bricks, unable to escape or just reach a phone or get out one single message. They have no money for a stamp, they forgot the number. But alive, oh, alive, all alive-o.

It’s hell on earth, this camp, fed by war’s inexhaustible deliveries of forced labour. And it holds heaven, if we could only find it. We can’t bear to think of our loved ones there, and we can’t bear not to. It’s beautiful torture, it’s hideous comfort to know they are there under duress. They’d come home if they could. It’s torture but it is believable, it is possible, it is probable as long as profitable to use unnamed unpaid unfree workers to dig things out of the ground. It can exist and they can be there.

David has been there since Abkhazia, 1992. Revan has been there since 1994, Nagorno-Karabakh. Igor has been there since 2014, Donbas.

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Names of some of the missing from the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict

We carried a corpse of a soldier from the other side, literally carried it about for weeks, to exchange for our living son David. We buried it in the end, thinking, as we dug the grave, about David being forced to dig in that camp somewhere. Maybe no one wants it anymore; maybe we have to exchange something else. One day if we still remember where it is we’ll show our son that grave; what we did to get him back.

I never married, because it was my brother Revan who had to marry first and had to give me away at my wedding, and the dowry all went on a ransom for my brother who has still not been ransomed. Then it became too late for the wedding, but it’ll never be too late for Revan to come home.

azerbaijan

Brothers and sisters: from before the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict

We keep calling the number that once had an accented voice on the other end giving us a message from our dad Igor. It never answers. We check the social media account that once sent us information about the camp, and a photograph of Igor held there. The account is never active anymore. The messages were never enough to understand where that labour camp is. Whatever we do to find him, it’s never enough.

Tell us the camp is real, and our missing ones are all there. We paid for it, we wrote down the messages, we offered the exchange. We’ll always believe it.

missing posters kyiv 8.15

Looking for the missing: outside the Ukrainian presidential administration, 2015

Somewhere in the territory of the former Russian Empire there is a labour camp, where the inmates work digging things up out of the ground. Sometimes they dig up the bones of people no one will ever know the names of, and dream faces onto them.

They are all there, the missing ones, the ones we dream about. It’s hell on earth, and, if we could only find it, holds our heaven.

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