ISSUE 52

‘Close up shop early today,’ Baba urged, exhaustion etched on his face.

Nestled in the heart of the city’s busiest street, our once-thriving coffee haven was almost empty. Its cramped space and outdated appearance didn’t attract customers anymore; the tables had lost their charm, and the glass tumblers had fallen out of favour. Baba, burdened by debt and a sizable family to support, found himself unable to renovate or rejuvenate the fading allure of the shop.

Around that time, whispers of a distant war reached the street in the urban hum. People, drawn to tales of a conflict between a struggling, small nation and a wealthy powerhouse, rallied in sympathy for the underdog – perhaps a reflection of their own struggles. The reasons behind this collective sentiment eluded me. Baba, keenly observing these global events, expressed his concerns. ‘The war is escalating, and the shop might be forced to close for an extended period. It’s time for you to seek alternative work. How about selling flowering plants?’ he suggested one evening.

Baba understood that the closure of our shop could plunge us into challenging times. As I tended to the shop in the days that followed, Baba disappeared into the bustling city, blending into the masses passionately rallying with slogans and placards in support of the oppressed nation. However, even the constant influx of protesting crowds couldn’t restore the former splendour of our shop.

Baba, skilled in the art of stitching, tailored our clothes at home. Over the next couple of days, he brought home bundles of fresh cloth, and together, throughout the night, we worked. Baba sewed dozens of flags representing what he referred to as the ‘small occupied nation’. I assisted by peeling small sticks, cut from peach trees in our garden, to hold the flags. By the morning, three dozen flags were ready. ‘The market and the protesting crowd will determine the price. If fate allows, and the sales go well, we’ll continue sewing more flags tonight,’ Baba declared, exhaling clouds of smoke through his lips.

Baba spoke of the escalating war, indicating it wouldn’t cease anytime soon. Uninformed and oblivious to the warring nations, I recognised it was not good to remain ignorant. Events taking place far away could impact even our business. I began to appreciate the importance of staying informed in a global context.

Baba proved to be right. As the situation worsened, the entire city crowded the marketplace. The moment Baba opened the bag of flags in front of our coffee shop, and they sold out instantly. The crowd exhibited a frenzy, passionately kissing the flags – mere pieces of cloth to me – and energetically waving them while chanting in a mesmerising chorus. They unquestioningly paid whatever amount Baba quoted, without pausing at the high prices. Baba, visibly excited, led me through the bustling crowd straight to a cloth shop after the flags were sold.

Over the following weeks, we sewed and sold dozens of bags of flags, our profit surpassed our earnings at the coffee shop. Baba and I hawked flags outside our shop, while my two brothers, persuaded by Baba after some bickering, sold flags in other busy streets of the city.

I marvelled at the unexpected value a small piece of cloth could suddenly hold. It was surreal to witness crowds gathering in the streets, enthusiastically chanting slogans over loudspeakers, waving the flags we crafted, rallying for a cause that Baba, despite not wanting to halt, found compelling. I was informed by someone in the market that our flag-selling reels had gained viral popularity on the internet.

In a surprising turn of events, Baba was forcibly taken by unidentified individuals in a night-time raid. Upon his return the next morning, he revealed that he had been cautioned to cease selling flags from one nation unless he also sold flags from another. Intrigued, I started to wonder about the political significance of flags and the nations they symbolised.

‘Their flags hold little significance for us. While people may wave the flags of a small oppressed nation to express solidarity, it’s only meaningful if they have the financial means, time for protests, and enough to support their families. As a big poor family burdened with debt, these flags hold no value for us as long as our focus is on making money and surviving.’

‘What nation is it whose flags we don’t sell, and what is the reason?’ I inquired.

‘The flags we are directed to sell belong to the oppressor. Their atrocities and the anguish of the oppressed do not concern us. We’ve borne our own hardships, and it seems inconsequential to everyone else,’ came the stoic response.

‘Are we really then making flags representing the oppressor?’ I implored.

‘We have to, in order to continue selling the flags of the oppressed. There might be a slight financial setback, but we cannot afford to waste this opportunity. Though there may be a conflict raging elsewhere, here it signifies something entirely different,’ Baba explained, his voice tinged with urgency and a hint of frustration.

Fortunately, we only had to sew a single bundle of flags for the oppressor nation since the buyers were few. Support for that nation was virtually non-existent. Our business thrived, and I thought it would endure indefinitely. Baba sold the coffee shop and acquired a spacious store adjacent to it, declaring our venture into the garment business.

The war persisted, and so did our flag enterprise. Never before had I witnessed such colossal crowds, nor had I ever seen fashion so boldly intertwined with the chaos of conflict. The streets were alive with a predominantly youthful energy – young men and women, seemingly carefree amid the apparent jubilation and lack of concern. Some men strolled nonchalantly, some let their long curls flow down their shoulders, adorned in Capri pants, coffee mugs and cold drinks in hand, sporting oversized colourful glasses, and absorbed in their mobile phones, ears plugged with earbuds. The young women accompanying them radiated joy, smiling openly as they engaged in what appeared to be trivial conversations. Any sudden announcement over the loudspeaker in the bustling market square sent a collective surge of excitement through the crowd, creating a scene that was nothing short of perfect, with our flags rising and waving in such a mesmerising harmony.

One day, an unexpected calm settled over the market, casting an eerie quietness upon its normally bustling scene. In the evening, Baba, visibly perturbed and thoughtful, said to the family, ‘Wars cannot endure indefinitely. Someone’s suffering must cease for another’s to begin. They have agreed to a one-week ceasefire. Perhaps, our flag buyers will return then. In the meantime, we must explore alternative sources of income.’

‘Why don’t others seize the opportunity to sell flags, considering the potential for big profits?’, I questioned.

‘People reckon it’s a morally dicey game, or perhaps they’re aware it’s just a fleeting affair. Morality’s a shifting target. When we suffer and die and beg for peace here, they cloak it in slick terminology, a shield of words. Dying and killing, it’s a kind of trade, a lucrative one at that. Just yesterday, I saw some visuals of the war – cities and towers decimated in the war, structures dwarfing Skyline Towers that looms over our marketplace. This level of chaos demands a hefty arsenal. It’s a business, by God, but no one bats an eye. Why do our modest flags go viral while colossal deals for massive destruction stay hidden? It’s not our fault to profit this way as long as the war rages on. Don’t question why no one else hawks flags. Let’s embrace prosperity, for God wishes us to thrive after the suffering we’ve endured.’

Throughout the week, I sought insights from people and friends, trying to unravel the enigma of the war. Baba’s peculiar decisions only fuelled my curiosity. I began to think that ignorance might have been a more comforting choice. Someone shared a video featuring my Baba selling flags, accompanied by merciless mockery in the comments. The visuals of war were grim – children perishing, mass graves, and sprawling cities ablaze. It was a massacre, yet the reasons behind the war remained elusive. The prevailing sentiment was a unanimous blame one nation as the oppressor and the other as the oppressed.

Sympathy for the beleaguered nation and the plight of innocent children grew within me. Resentment festered toward Baba for his stance on the war. Did he secretly desire its perpetuation for the sake of his flag enterprise? His demeanour suggested an unsettling obsession; he behaved as if he were gripped by some unseen force. Sleep eluded him during lulls in the conflict, and he tirelessly sewed countless bags of flags, driven by an urgency that hinted at an unholy determination for his business to flourish amid the chaos.

At dinner, a disturbing satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as the radio heralded the resumption of war with a bombardment on a densely populated town. His sadistic delight propelled him to hasten preparations for the following day, urging us all to wake up early.

A wave of guilt engulfed me as I trailed behind Baba in the morning, the bag of flags pressing on my back. He moved with a youthful vigour, but an unsettling sense of remorse began to gnaw at me.

‘Baba, stop!’ I shouted, a sudden surge of energy propelling the words out of me. The bag dropped heavily to the ground, and Baba, struggling with his own heavy bag, turned to face me.

‘What’s the matter?’ he bellowed.

‘We can’t keep doing this. We need to find another way to make a living. Making money like this is wrong. I know you don’t want the war to end. Children are being slaughtered, cities bombed with ammunition.’

‘Go get your head examined. You’re talking nonsense,’ Baba retorted, his voice echoing in the darkness of my mind.

‘I don’t want to be a part of this. I’m going home,’ I declared.

‘Get the hell out of here. Go your way, and let me go mine. By the time we figure out who’s right or wrong, they might have destroyed a city and killed hundreds more.’

Feeling disheartened, I walked away, questioning whether I was right or wrong.