The Gray Earth by Galsan Tschinag

Author:Galsan Tschinag [Tschinag, Galsan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781571318121
Publisher: Milkweed Editions
Published: 2011-01-05T05:00:00+00:00

The days of mourning are infinitely long and monotonous. All our lessons are about the marshal. We learn that Khorloo was his mother’s name, and that his mother was a poor, honest, brave woman who from day one raised her son to become a fighter. We learn that he hated aristocrats, the rich, and the lamas, and swore to topple their systems. We learn that he wore a blue cotton shirt, and that he unmasked, arrested, and destroyed the enemies who wanted to sell out Mongolia to evil foreign powers, and who were planning to poison our great hero Sükhbaatar, his comrade in the struggle. We learn that he defended the revolution and the fatherland with such wisdom and courage that he was twice named Hero of the State, and that he was promoted to marshal, the highest military rank. And we learned that he worked for us tirelessly until the day he died.

Such stories are lovely to listen to. But they also raise questions. For example, when there is talk about the mother, one would also like to hear about the father. When the blue shirt he wore as a boy is mentioned, one wonders if he wore pants along with the shirt, or scurried across the steppe with a bare ass like the rest of us. However, something keeps all of us from asking these questions—once burned, twice shy.

The days drag on. Living in a state of merciless silence and mourning without having any fun is hard. Yet even during the black-and-red days, different stories emerge. It’s just that they have to be whispered more quietly.

Sürgündü is now homeless. The aunt in whose yurt she used to stay got mad and sent her packing after noticing the strange ribbons around her upper arm. “Mourn yourself to death for all I care, but not in my yurt!” yelled her old aunt. Sürgündü moved into the dormitory, where a bed had been empty since Gök’s departure.

Ombar taught himself to cry. He soaks a handkerchief with onion juice and wipes it across his eyes whenever tears are called for. Others copy his trick. As a result, copious tears are shed at the great memorial rally, which is attended by representatives of the working herders from all directions. Afterwards, the District Administration praises our school, and so the principal praises our class.

One day we see newspapers with pictures of mourners like us next to a black-rimmed picture of the marshal. One woman in particular stands out because she is young and, as Billy Goat puts it, as beautiful as a witch. Even this woman cries! She must have had her reasons. The teacher knows her name, and tells us she was the marshal’s songstress. Later we hear that she held a wake at the marshal’s coffin and cried nonstop for days and nights—so overwhelming was her grief! We can’t help but wonder whether she, too, had to work on her beautiful, bewitching eyes with a handkerchief soaked in onion juice.

Sometime later, the period of mourning comes to an end, though we are still said to be inconsolable.

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