i follow the smell of death

I follow the smell of death until I reach the iron gates. They are open. On each side, cement walls extend into the darkness, decorated with broken glass and rings of barbed wire. There is a sign above the entrance. Arbeit Macht Frei: Work Shall Set You Free.

Once past the gates, I find myself at the edge of a great open stretch of land, a maidan. There seems to be a carnival going on – there are boys, eunuchs, men, and horses and elephants and camels too, divided into two groups facing each other, the air is filled with excited chatter and impatient grunting and stomping, and there are colourful banners and flags and uniforms everywhere. The aroma of death here is richly infused with the scent of spices, dirt, sweat, burning ghee, incense. I detect a tinge of the sweetness that is anticipation, but it is mixed with the damp odour of fear. In the center of the maidan, there is a vast emptiness separating the two sides, thirsty and longing to be filled.