In the Same Clay

We sit in the mud . . . and reach for the stars – Ivan Turgenev

It’s easy to learn the horrors of war. We see pictures all the time. Afghanistan, Iraq, Malaysia, Vietnam, Korea, Nazi Germany. I believe that very few things can shock a generation who has grown up with such accessibility to information and events that are happening on the other side of the world.

In school you learn about the basics of what happened on the battlefield one hundred years ago. There are facts, statistics. People become percentages of death or survival, missing and recovered. I wanted to see the battle field for myself. Understand the terrain, the environment, and why people made the decisions they did.

Belgium is a beautiful country. Blue skies, friendly people, and some of the best chocolate in the world. There are many reasons why I chose to travel there, the culture, the history, the new languages. Most of all I wanted to understand what happened during the Battle of Passchendaele in World War I.

In Passchendaele I went to the museum. The history, the relics, and artifacts of soldiers that died on created a turmoil of emotions. Everything there belonged to someone. The guns, the uniforms, they weren’t fabricated for display. The clothing was worn, the weapons were used to kill. And now they are locked up behind glass. True prisoners of war. I found my horror in the information on the cards. Many of the men who died there didn’t die from an enemy attack. They died drowning in the mud on the battle field.

The last room, a special exhibition, is what stays with me. An artist, I can’t remember the name now, created a sculpture for the museum. It haunts me to this day.

A darkened room. On the far wall was a projection of a field of wild flowers, blue skies, green grass gently swaying in the breeze. It was a soldier’s idea of peace and quiet. Something to return to after the war was won. Between myself and the projection was the sculpture. I had a sudden sense of gasping for breath. A tightness to my chest. Hands. Pillars of arms and hands reaching for that blue bird sky. The desperate hands were made from clay and mud. My throat closed; I couldn’t swallow. Chills swept through my body. I swear the temperature dropped a few degrees. I could almost see my breath curl in the air. It was desperate, reaching for the impossible. A final attempt at trying to get out. The hands moved towards me, intending to trap me in the clay as well. Cold to the touch the fingers curled around my arms, freezing me in place as terror gripped my heart.

I blinked and it was gone.

The clay wasn’t store bought like I thought. This artist went to the battle fields of Passchendaele and hand dug the clay from the earth. They took the ground from where so many last breaths turned into bubbles and created hands reaching for help. How many breaths were trapped in the muddy hands? How many last words and prayers to God were embedded in the sculpture? How many of those men lingered because they didn’t know where to go?

In the moment of shifting understanding, the hands came to life. Higher and higher they reached. Grasping at things that will never come to pass. Trapped as they were, dying in the mud. Young men evermore trapped in the hands reaching for nothing.

I died in hell. They call it Passchendaele – Siegfried Sassoon

Esther Fisher is a graduate of York University with a BA in English and Creative Writing. She is also a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. She enjoys ballroom dancing, singing at the top of her lungs when no one is around and taking walks through the local ravine. In her spare time, she writes poetry when she’s not trying to plot a novel.

Instagram: @13feathers_and_keys

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