Newsroom, Late

The clocks upon the wall are stopped, they haven’t worked for years. It could be any time in Tokyo, in London, Paris or New York. It’s late, and deadlines, met or missed, are past. The news is done, it’s fixed in print, though muted televisions flicker out the incremental day-long cycle. The running strips across the screens record trivia and disaster. Aleppo’s in the news tonight, A fabled city lies in bloody ruin. It has been wrecked by earthquake, sacked by cruel thugs, like Tamerlane the great: this is not new, and here it’s hardly news, just death in a far country. But to Aleppo’s markets once the Silk Road came, to reeking, fragrant, raucous sukhs and khans. Imagine the exquisite cloth, embroidered travellers’ tales of fabulous ordeals from caravanserai to citadel, to watchtower, wall and gate, thin air of mountain passes under snow, fantastic tales from the Middle Kingdom whose emperor under heaven knew he was the centre of the world. Aleppo’s traders knew their precious wares went out as far as Rome, Cordoba, Timbuktu and Zanzibar. Imagine narrow lanes, braised savoury meat, clothing, fruit and spices on display, jostling animals and men, the public haggling and secret treasures: silk, jade and porcelain. Here the silent markets never stop. A dumb Bloomberg terminal rolls out the stocks and currencies all night, though no-one’s watching. Aleppo’s markets are in ruin tonight. Starved people live in blood and rubble, homes and hospitals destroyed. I can’t conceive how they survive. I must drive home now, through quiet streets. There will be beggars wrapped in blankets at the traffic lights. Money will change hands. Bloomberg has no metric and no code for this. At home there will be food and warmth. Aleppo’s dying, and people in the street, begging, on a night so cold, alone, so late, I can’t conceive how they survive, and Bloomberg has no metric and no code for this. [Johannesburg, August 2016]