Snap-shots of an August summer evening: WWII fighter planes; fire retardant; three planes in thirty minutes. I do the math – one gas-guzzler every ten minutes. Fire in the hills to the north of Boise; the valley is filled with smoke. Eyes sting, sinuses ache. I ride my bike to and from work – the exercise is good but maybe it’s not smart to breathe so deeply of the sooty air.
I pedal home over the old red bridge that crosses the river. It’s only 7 p.m. but the blood red sun looks like sunset is near. It leaves a dancing reflection on the water. A fly-fisherman has an audience – a dad and his little kids watch each cast. The kids’ eyes sparkle, mouths smile as the man fires his arm back and forth to execute the perfect plop for his fly.
★ ★ ★
Irritation. Frustration. No – anger. Not quite – livid. What makes your blood boil? Human trafficking? Genocide? War? Persecution? Prejudice? Deceit? Injustice? Religiosity? A double standard? All of the above? “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing” – Edmond Burk. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere” – Martin Luther King, Jr. If enough boiling bubbles up, it slips over and it’s not comfortable. It becomes conflict and confrontation. Someone or something will push back in dysfunctional familiarity. Non-participation is the best weapon for this battle and others squirm.
Imagine you are a rice farmer in Kawthulei (Karen State, Burma). Your family lives simply among the tropical foliage in a crudely but carefully crafted wood house on stilts. Underneath, the chickens and pigs pick at the dirt for seeds and scraps. Early to rise, you slip on your calf-length plastic galosh boots. The hand-woven fringe bag is slung over your manual-labor-built muscled shoulders. It holds the lunch you will eat at midday in the fields. With the sun just over the thickly covered hills, your back is bent at a 90 degree angle to your body. The left hand holds the bundle of rice seedlings; the right hand takes one sprig at a time. With skill earned from years of work, the thumb pushes a hole in the mud. A perfect fit for the young shoots to take root. Shallow but it is just the right depth for growth.
Back in the village, the shots surprise the moms and babies. Screams ensue. A grandma is gunned down in the back as she attempts to flee. Her face lies in a pool of her own blood. The child soldier has been told to kill or be killed. The Burmese generals keep their lotioned hands clean of innocent guts as they sit in the elaborately built new country capital of Naypyidaw. Just sixteen, but he is told to rape and soil the Karen “rebels” human seed. Annihilation or complete assimilation is the only goal of the junta.
★ ★ ★
The night is sticky with heat and humidity. Wall fans fail to relieve the discomfort. Mosquitoes make dinner on parishioners’ arms. The pastor preaches in Burmese to reach the mix of ethnic groups.
He’s a new kid and tries to hide among the other young guys. Clean cut and handsome – someday soon he’ll probably marry a cute gal and make beautiful Asian babies. But until recently, a family and the hope of a future was out of reach.
He desires a new chance; to wipe the slate clean and draw something beautiful instead of the nightmares he still dreams colored in blood red. Sayama told me his story later that week. Abduction. A gun shoved in his hand instead of the pencil he should have still been using at school. Escape to the Thai border. A commitment to Christ – only a God who shed His own blood could forgive the brutal things he was made to do. He now has hope of redemption, a restored life. Something has to be lost or broken before restoration is required. He understands this deeper than any teenager his age should ever have to know.
★ ★ ★
The alleyway was dark last night. It is every night since the neighbors below moved out. They always left their porch light on. The rowdy boys next door in the single-level yellow stucco apartment take advantage of the darkness. They climb on the roof via the window sill and boost their girlfriends up there too. Lawn chairs, beer & darkness. It’s a perfect night for first-time-living-on-their-own young adults.
Brushing my teeth, I hear them through the open bathroom window – a noisy discussion about the military. One guy used “like” and explicatives in almost every sentence. “No, no, no – I think every boy, when he turns eighteen, should give two years of service. You owe it to this country. No, no…it doesn’t have to be military but, like, it could be some other f-ing government agency.” He seemed pretty passionate.
He kept ranting and raving with a loud voice. His friends were quieter. I couldn’t quite catch what they said in reply. But he went on – “Americans are fixated on Hitler and how many f-ing people he was responsible for killing. But what about Mao Tse-tung? He f-ing killed way more people with, like, the famine during the Cultural Revolution. Why don’t we teach that in school?” I had wondered the same thing after learning the hideous truth in an Eastern Civilizations college class. This kid may need to straighten out his word choices but he was no dummy.
After listening to more than half an hour of firing retorts and arguments, I felt like yelling, “So go enlist!” But then I thought it might be better to scream, “Only pick up a gun if you have to; fight with your pencil; learn; study; grow; be an advocate and a voice.”
I didn’t yell anything as the guys were already scrambling down the roof to the window ledge. The girls made up for my lack of silence as they shrieked when the guys told them to jump, they would catch them.
And then it was silent. The neighbor’s words rattled in my brain and mixed with my dreams – the hot summer night with no A/C, sticky… the boy in the back pew. A quiet testimony but he was telling it, one person at a time.
Angie, Your writing is a gift to me on this day. Sad to say, child soldiers are everywhere. Did you see the movie, “Blood Diamond?” It is a must see film and very timely–the story of a boy soldier kidnapped and trained in all things evil. His father pursues him carefully for if he is discovered, his son must shoot him. The movie had such an impact on me, that I still remember it.
Love you, Kid!
Tante
Aunt Carole – Yes, I did see “Blood Diamond”. It’s one of those movies that leaves the stomach in knots. I too remember the images; it’s horrifying the capacity for evil in humanity. Every time I happen to drive by a diamond store, I wonder how many (if any) are conflict-free diamonds. In Burma, the military wants to take ethnic lands rich in rubies and jade. Though I haven’t researched much on this aspect, I would venture to guess there has been blood shed over these resources.