The river of Babylon

A fictional reflection on the Hanging Gardens of Babylo

Nothing is possible without water. I reflect on my life and am grateful that I haven’t had to know this sooner, in all of my 70 years.

Nothing is possible without water.

I’ve never wanted for anything, let alone water. My life has been one of excess and relaxation. Fresh bread, meat, succulent fruit, sweets, and honey. Rich wine, doting, attention. I’ve never had to care about anything. The burn of worry in my chest is one I’ve experienced so rarely, I thought I was having a heart attack before I realized, it was just fear.

And now the army is closing in, and we don’t have water. They’ve diverted the Euphrates River, the worst attack so far. Babylon will dry up. The drought will hit first from the edges, but eventually, it will hit us. We’re just a puddle in the burning sun. It’s the end of our nation but more than that. the gardens are dying.

My gardens. As long as they have been green and lush, I have experienced vitality in my own health and beauty. Without water, they will slowly wither, and no one will remember them or get to appreciate their magic. Dust. Without the gardens, I expect the same fate.

Maybe we deserve it. My husband is a cruel man. He has destroyed nations, conquered lands, and brought those in his way to their knees. But he loves me.

I’m from a land of mountains, overflowing with greenery. Growing up, those mountains were my ever-present guardians. They watched me from afar, and I admired their beauty in return. I spent every day outdoors, and I even cultivated my own garden. Far out by the river, out of view of the castle and my family. There, I experimented with small seeds, growing different herbs, flowers, and sprouts for my own pleasure. This was where I found freedom from the politics and intensity of royal life.

Then it was arranged I would be sent to live in Babylon, a city far west of our land. I was to marry the king there.

Only 14 years old and far from my mountains, I was thrust deep into a foreign city. I felt so isolated, trapped in a world of stone. Vast towers, castles, and temples replaced my mountain view, and though they were impressive, they lacked warmth. They lacked life. Anything green or alive was sparse, and I fell into deep distress. My new husband knew something was wrong when I would only take dinner in my quarters, and only emerged if summoned.

So he came up with an idea. The hanging gardens. It was arguably the greatest challenge he had faced at the time, then only a young king. But our people are smart and adapted some of the greatest engineering techniques of the times. It took thousands of men; builders, architects, and even farmers to weigh in on what would become a world wonder.

It took time, 5 years in total, but my depression was lifted quickly when my husband told me about the plan. I immediately wanted to be a part of the project, the design, and the plant choices.  With the sheer amount of manpower devoted to the gardens, progress was quick.

Wells were dug, and then an enormous tiered structure slowly began to take shape east of the palace. The base of my own mountain.

Stone platforms and wooden beams supported the wrap-around terraces, designed to be light but strong. The richest soil that could be found was carted in to line them. Water was already diverted in this direction from the river, and that along with the wells provided ample water for irrigation. Then came the fun part – bringing it all to life. I alone chose which plants and trees to cultivate. The choice was obvious.

I remember that I looked my husband mischievously in the eye and said, “I want everything.”

And that’s what we got. First young adult palm trees were uprooted and planted by the dozens, lining the terraces like soldiers. Then came the fruit trees – lemon, pomegranate, dates, pears, figs, even a dozen green-gray olive trees. Almond trees, limes, oranges, mangoes – anything I desired was expertly procured. I decided we needed even more foliage, just as my mountains back home had been dense with forest. Cypresses, pines, and oaks were carted in from faraway conquered lands.

Next came grape vines, tropical flowers, bushes, and grasses. Every inch of space was filled, and when it was done and I walked far out to a hill on the edge of the city to admire our work, it was a mountain indeed. It emitted a glowing mist from all of the water that was pumped in through the aquifers. Our mountain of gardens was perhaps even more beautiful than my mountains back home, enunciated by the sand-colored buildings that surrounded it. We had created before my eyes. I was in love.

It's not an exaggeration to say I sat in the gardens every day. I felt no need to go anywhere else. Time went on, and the gardens grew and flourished between the constant sun and steady flow of water. There were so many terraces, so many hiding spots among the bushes and vines, that although the entire structure was manmade, sometimes I could get lost for hours.

I raised the children in the gardens. It was a safe place from the bustle of the city, and the air was fresh and sweet hiding amongst the plants.

We picked fresh fruit in the morning, still warm from the sun. In the evening, we got drunk on wine made from the grapes in the hanging gardens. In this world, I was not just admiring the mountains from afar. I was a part of them. I think of my soul was tangled there, amongst the vines and the grasses where I’d spent so much time laying and contemplating the world. Part of me remains.

I see now that I lived in my own fantasy of utopia. While I had spent my days within the safe canopy of the gardens, the world was still spinning. Man was still being man, and my husband had started many wars that he could not finish. Great empires rise, and great empires fall.

I have lived a rich life, but now I understand.

Nothing is possible without water. And man may be able to move mountains, but he cannot create them.