Night Vision
Mind’s Eye Radio, 2000. Copyright(c) R. Elena Tabachnick. All rights reserved.
In darkness at the base of a cliff, Salah said, “I can prove the soul exists.”
I was on a trip to southern Algeria. Two of my college friends, Julie and Dick, had came along. It was our first night out. In December, the Saharan night comes early, fast and cold. Very cold.
The tiny fire cast orange flameshadow across the tall cliff at our backs. A sliver of moon rose. We sat close to feel the heat - that was immediately lost as we were lost in the immeasurable black of Saharan night.
It was too early for bed but too cold for much else. So we sang folk songs and told stories, helping each other to stay up a little longer. YaYah used a goatskin water bottle for a drum. It still looked pretty much like a goat, although without a head: the four legs, neck and tail splayed stiffly out.
Salah said, “I can prove the soul exists.”
We were skeptical, but he insisted. Pointing to the moon, he spoke simply, a few sentences. His proof was mathematical.
Now, my two friends and I were geologists, with over three decades of scientific education to our collective name. We knew there is an unbridgeable gap between empirical experience - the province of science - and religious belief - which is beyond the limits of science. Arguments for God all come down to the same thing: maybe, maybe not. Only through faith, can we believe more.
Salah said, “I can prove the soul exists.”
“It works,” Dick whispered.
After that, we crawled into our beds, each a mattress heaped with blankets. I scribbled a few notes in my journal, but it was too cold to write.
“I’ll finish in the morning,” I thought, blowing on frozen fingers.
The next morning, I tried to recall Salah’s proof, but nothing came. My journal notes didn’t help. They began “If you have an object (the moon) and part is removed, dot, dot, dot”. Then came several illegible scratches that might, or might not, have been words.
Julie and Dick stood huddled in down jackets, dunking stale French bread in milky coffee. I asked them for Salah’s proof. Mystified, they shook their heads. They had forgotten it also. Julie pulled out her journal, but her notes were as useless as mine.
“Let’s find Salah and hear it again,” she said.
We looked around. Salah was nowhere to be seen.
The camp was packed up by that time. From the base of the cliff, emptiness stretched to a distant horizon. There was no place to hide. Salah, like his proof, had simply disappeared.
I asked Abdul Kadir where Salah had gone. He shrugged. Then he grabbed my pack, swung it into a landrover and motioned for me to follow.
We never saw Salah again.
The Sahara was just a place to go. I wasn’t looking for anything grand. But now I have to seek - people, places, events - anything that might illuminate. Because once, in the depth of a desert night, I heard convincing proof that I have a soul.
