The first day, the first names

10:45am. During morning classes. The strike results in 165–180 deaths.
The first list is compiled on the first day: 61 names.
The list includes 25 boys, 26 girls, eight women, one man and a two-month-old baby.

Hana, eight. Fatemeh, thirty-four. Reza, seven. Arya, nine. Ali, eight. Zahra, seven. Ahmad, eight. Hamed, seven. Fatemeh, age unknown. Mahdis, seven. Athena, six. Amirghasem, seven. Fatemeh, ten. Arad, eight. Saman, seven. Fatemeh, age unknown. Nadia, nine. Parham, nine. Mahmoud, thirty-five. Fatemeh, ten. Amir-Hassan, eight. Zahra, eight. Mohammadhatam, ten. Asna, twelve. Benyamin, eight. Mohammad-Sadra, eight. Maryam, ten. Liana, seven. Mandana, twenty-nine. Sara, five. Zoha, eight. Esra, nine. Salma, six. Fatemeh, twenty-nine. Zahra, seven. Fatemeh, ten. Mahna, two months. Athareh, ten. Alireza, nine. Mohammadreza, eight. Samira, thirty-eight. Ehsan, six. Fatemeh, seven. Zeynab, ten. Mohammad, eight. Reza, seven. Athena, ten. Khadijeh, nine. Roqayyeh, forty-two. Reza, six. Marzieh, thirty-eight. Mohammad-Mehdi, ten. Mohammadian, seventeen. Ali-Akbar, eight. Hananeh, seven. Fereshteh, forty-four. Mohammad-Ali, seven. Parsa, twelve. Arina, eight. Makan, twelve. Esra, age unknown.

I imagine the women were teachers. That the girl named Hananeh had bright eyes and Zeynab was sometimes wild. The Athenas were six and ten: these numbers will not grow or change. I cannot imagine they will. I cannot will else.

The world is the world.

Helplessness is no longer useful to me. My children I remember watching and watching become men. They are, still. I have found that anger, that sorrow can push a plow. There is too much. All I want to sow.

The ground is the ground. Things have been done, things can be done: these are facts I hold to. The Earth is made of earth. Night darkens this place, the day comes with morning.

Four of us have seen it, a crescent rising like a shy hand from behind the moon.