In july, the memorial looks solitary. From a distance its shady pine and eucalyptus trees stand isolated amidst undulating landsacpe of burnt grass.
This place is the site of the aeroplane accident on 18th September 1961, when Dag Hammarskjoeld was killed. He ,together with seven others was on a mission to bring peace to the Congo.
The police officer smiles and waves me through the gate with an air of familiarity. Usually, gentle breeze, birds flying about oblivious of human presence and soft rumba music playing from the maintenance crews' houses blend into a playful jovial atmosphere.
But today, as i step out of the car, I notice that it is unsually quiet. Nothing seems to move. There's not a bird or a sound. As I have not seen any worker in sight, I take delight at the thought of being alone except for the guard who by now has sunk lazily in a chair. Streaks of sunlight seem to flash on my white shirt as I walk to the cairn at the middle of the monument. I stand facing it with the solemnity of ritual rehearsed during all the previous times I've been here. I leaf spirals down to the ground and lands near a startled chicken which I had not noticed until now, snuggled in a pool of sunlight in the dust.
Splattered particles of soil on the stone slabs that lead west to the small museum suggest that grasses have been uprooted along the path. A tiny blue flower peeks in between two squared stones. Walking on, I discover more in between irregular rocks and cracks., adding hue to the gray that leads up to the door. Inside the museum is even quieter. Black and white phographs line the left wall. Books by Dag are kept in a glass shelf on the right. The door at the back seems to have been shut for good. There are no windows. Lights comes in through a glass on the roof which was from the cockpit of the plane.
I first encountered this man in a prayer. My teacher in high school once said at the end of our class: "Lord for all that has been, thanks, for all that will be, yes." There was also a quotation on the wall about saying yes to someone or to something and life having meaning afterwards. These resonated in my young mind.
A few years later, I was reading what I thought was a boring book eidted by W. H. Auden, unitl I came across my teacher's prayer. I started all over. And then, that quotation. It was Markings by Dag Hammarskjoeld. A man who had doubts, questions, struggles and weaknesses but all in all a driving faith.
I amble for while moving from one wall to the other, searching for details that have escaped my attention the other times. I decide to walk back to the car after cheking the visitors' list. It is very short. I pass by at the foot of the anthill where his body was found.
It is still quiet and everything motionless. The chicken is gone. It seems odd in cold July when there are weeks of merry-making in the fairs. I am going to one. I invite the officer at the gate to go with me to one. He grunts back; "That's where everybody has gone."