“'You, the people, in your popular uprising succeeded in cutting off the monster’s head, but the lifeless body continues to deceive you that the monster is still dangerous. No, it is not! Having cut off the monster’s head, it is your sacred duty to push down the monster’s body, not to stand in fear of it.' He said, as we stood, peaking through the bushes at a man who radiated a unique eminence of prestige.
I did not know who he was, but I already felt safe within his proximity. With towering broad shoulders, he stood tall and scanned his audience of energetic cadets with small dark eyes, that swam atop firm circular cheekbones wrinkled from smiling, I suppose. His head shone all the way back to the apex of his skull where a thin twine of nappy hair formed a crescent that trickled down the sides of his face and dripped off his chin in a black and white goatee. He was not attractive, per se, but his presence filled the air with a captivating sense of something I still cannot find the right words to describe. His voice bellowed through the camp with an urgent sense of authority despite the serene, heartwarming words it conveyed.
It didn’t make sense to me why I had survived when my family didn’t, until I came across Sargent Garang Joe’s camp. Most of the comrades at Joe's camp knew who I was as soon as I stated my last name, they knew who my father and brother were. They said my family had been part of the rebellion for a long time, and that it was no accident. They told us of the people who had raided the town we stayed at that miserable night. Deewajanjas, or the devil's advocates, as they called them, were barbaric men who had been employed by the Cup-Heads to run Afribians out of their homes. The Deewajanjas were taught to hate our kind, they aimed to create some unrealistic, silly sense of ethnic "uniformity". As such, they had been tracking my father down for a while, the Sargent explained.
Gradually, each night, after we had completed our chores and attended training sessions of self-defense, the Sargent would have us sit around us as he explained Afribia's politics and history to our young, yearning minds. He lifted the cloak off of the injustice that had seemed to divide our land. We learned of the malicious people who wanted to drink Afribia's black gold, and leave Afribians thirsty. We were taught to unify under our understanding for each other's loss and grief, but we were constantly warned against allowing hate to fuel our ambitions.
'Hate is a volatile emotion that can turn against you, my child. If you let it motivate your pure intentions, then you will become vengeful and bitter and that same hate will come to eat you out. Today our country runs on a hate for those in power, and that is why we do not move forward.' The Sargent constantly reminded us.
I grew ten years older each night. Months passed and soon I, too, carried a gun. Whatever child had been left of Samara at that point, was wiped out clean. I dedicated the following ten years of my life to finding the people who had torn my family apart, and bringing down the men who ruled our country with such loose chaos. Occasionally, our camp would be discovered by enemies, but we always had God and the truth on our side. Until one day, while Karam and I were out hunting food for the camp, a man larger than Mohammed, the jail keeper, came out of the bushes with raging red eyes. We fought him with all our might, but he did not come alone... and that is how I ended up here, and Karam probably ended up somewhere in heaven." Samara bowed to hide the tears that threatened to fall.
"Now, they want me to become a traitor like them; to reveal the truth about Sargent Joe’s efforts. But I spit in their faces and they wipe off that spit by lashing me. Idiots. They don’t know that my voice is in a place their whips cannot reach. A place powered by this,” She made a fist with her right hand and pounded the upper left side of her chest.
"The heartless butchers try as they may to bruise my skin and break my bones, hoping they may reach my soul and destroy that too; but it is wed to a cause forever immune to their blades."
I did not know who he was, but I already felt safe within his proximity. With towering broad shoulders, he stood tall and scanned his audience of energetic cadets with small dark eyes, that swam atop firm circular cheekbones wrinkled from smiling, I suppose. His head shone all the way back to the apex of his skull where a thin twine of nappy hair formed a crescent that trickled down the sides of his face and dripped off his chin in a black and white goatee. He was not attractive, per se, but his presence filled the air with a captivating sense of something I still cannot find the right words to describe. His voice bellowed through the camp with an urgent sense of authority despite the serene, heartwarming words it conveyed.
'I appreciate and applaud your tenacity and courage throughout the difficult years of our struggle as a group, and I applaud your personal struggle as individuals. I salute your great spirit of survival and steadfastness. I commend you for the firm commitment to the cause of our people despite all the hardships and suffering you have gone through. Your Movement had always wanted to prepare you to be the future leaders of our nation. This is still the purpose; you are the generation that shall develop the new Afribia. Even though the difficulties and events of our struggle have separated many of you from the movement and some of us have scattered all over the world yet the aim is not lost.' He continued.
'I have come to wake you up and remind you that your day has come, tomorrow is already here; you have very little time left to prepare yourselves for leadership in whatever fields: agriculture, carpentry, architecture, medicine, politics, economics, or even raising a family…all these require skills and all contribute to building the New Afribia, which we have fought and sacrificed the last twenty years of our lives for. Even before you have completed the task of organizing yourselves nationally, you have the eyes of the world upon you at this very gathering. I am confident in your ability to come together in a spirit of unity towards a greater good – bringing the world’s awareness to the plight of the desperate people in Afribia. I have great faith that you will conduct your business as responsible leaders, rising above factional and political differences. As you speak, the world will hear and learn about the lost boys and girls of Afribia, the children of Afribia's war-torn countryside. Millions of your people have lost their future, their lives; they have no voice, except through you. The despair and tragedy spans every tribe, every religion, every language, and every culture found in your vast land. But still, we hold out hope for a day where we will again know the security and comfort of our family’s love, the prosperity of a country no longer at war, and peace in our homeland. Such cherished dreams will require all of the love, work, faith, trust and compassion we can assemble as allies and friends across the world. If you master this spirit of unity here," he gently placed his palm over the upper left side of his chest "You will truly be maturing into the leaders deeply needed by your country. Each one of you has my respect and admiration for enduring a life that no child should ever face, and for recognizing that the road ahead is still long, filled with both hardship and unexpected joy, self-discipline and the barest glimpse of cherished dreams that...'
At that particular moment his eyes held mine, and I witnessed a benevolent smile play about the corners of his lips. The young cadets turned their heads to face us. A girl, with height exceeding her age walked towards us alongside a sturdy, buffed boy with deep creases of anger drawn across his forehead. They ruffled the bushes with their machine guns and extended their arms to clasp the muddied cloth covering our shoulders; thugging us, front and center, on our knees right under Sargent Garang Joe's mercy. I looked up and he tipped my head down, held me by the arm and helped me to my feet.
'I have come to wake you up and remind you that your day has come, tomorrow is already here; you have very little time left to prepare yourselves for leadership in whatever fields: agriculture, carpentry, architecture, medicine, politics, economics, or even raising a family…all these require skills and all contribute to building the New Afribia, which we have fought and sacrificed the last twenty years of our lives for. Even before you have completed the task of organizing yourselves nationally, you have the eyes of the world upon you at this very gathering. I am confident in your ability to come together in a spirit of unity towards a greater good – bringing the world’s awareness to the plight of the desperate people in Afribia. I have great faith that you will conduct your business as responsible leaders, rising above factional and political differences. As you speak, the world will hear and learn about the lost boys and girls of Afribia, the children of Afribia's war-torn countryside. Millions of your people have lost their future, their lives; they have no voice, except through you. The despair and tragedy spans every tribe, every religion, every language, and every culture found in your vast land. But still, we hold out hope for a day where we will again know the security and comfort of our family’s love, the prosperity of a country no longer at war, and peace in our homeland. Such cherished dreams will require all of the love, work, faith, trust and compassion we can assemble as allies and friends across the world. If you master this spirit of unity here," he gently placed his palm over the upper left side of his chest "You will truly be maturing into the leaders deeply needed by your country. Each one of you has my respect and admiration for enduring a life that no child should ever face, and for recognizing that the road ahead is still long, filled with both hardship and unexpected joy, self-discipline and the barest glimpse of cherished dreams that...'
At that particular moment his eyes held mine, and I witnessed a benevolent smile play about the corners of his lips. The young cadets turned their heads to face us. A girl, with height exceeding her age walked towards us alongside a sturdy, buffed boy with deep creases of anger drawn across his forehead. They ruffled the bushes with their machine guns and extended their arms to clasp the muddied cloth covering our shoulders; thugging us, front and center, on our knees right under Sargent Garang Joe's mercy. I looked up and he tipped my head down, held me by the arm and helped me to my feet.
'No child, if you intend to sit on your knees and look up with weakness let it be in prayer to your God, not to me. I am not your enemy, unless you declare yourself to be mine. If you do not, you will remain in God's mercy and my grace. What are your names?'
'Samara Salih Alsir,' I said 'And this is my friend Karam Mohammed Ahmed' I completed before Karam found his voice to speak.
The Sargent smiled radiantly as he glared at Karam. 'Has the rat gotten your tongue? Is it the woman who should speak for the man now?' He mocked.
Karam cleared his throat, 'No, my tongue is right here. If she speaks for me it is because I allow her to. But she knows who remains in the position of authority here.' he managed to tease back, despite the tension that eroded him.
I elbowed him in the waist, and he screeched.
'What I mean to say is, actually, this is no ordinary lady. She is my equal in strength and wit, so I am glad that she speaks on my behalf. It is as if I am speaking, but in a prettier voice.' Karam corrected himself.
Laughter contagiously spread from the Sargent's belly to that of everyone around us. Soon enough, Karam and I found ourselves unloading our heavy weight of fatigue and worry, and submitting to the stream of giggles and chuckles that took hold of the air at that moment.
The Sargent then stroked my hair away from my face and looked into my eyes. Extending his other hand out in salutations he whispered, 'What a pleasure it is to meet you Samara. You are just as fierce as I would expect any daughter of Salih Alsir to be.'
It didn’t make sense to me why I had survived when my family didn’t, until I came across Sargent Garang Joe’s camp. Most of the comrades at Joe's camp knew who I was as soon as I stated my last name, they knew who my father and brother were. They said my family had been part of the rebellion for a long time, and that it was no accident. They told us of the people who had raided the town we stayed at that miserable night. Deewajanjas, or the devil's advocates, as they called them, were barbaric men who had been employed by the Cup-Heads to run Afribians out of their homes. The Deewajanjas were taught to hate our kind, they aimed to create some unrealistic, silly sense of ethnic "uniformity". As such, they had been tracking my father down for a while, the Sargent explained.
Gradually, each night, after we had completed our chores and attended training sessions of self-defense, the Sargent would have us sit around us as he explained Afribia's politics and history to our young, yearning minds. He lifted the cloak off of the injustice that had seemed to divide our land. We learned of the malicious people who wanted to drink Afribia's black gold, and leave Afribians thirsty. We were taught to unify under our understanding for each other's loss and grief, but we were constantly warned against allowing hate to fuel our ambitions.
'Hate is a volatile emotion that can turn against you, my child. If you let it motivate your pure intentions, then you will become vengeful and bitter and that same hate will come to eat you out. Today our country runs on a hate for those in power, and that is why we do not move forward.' The Sargent constantly reminded us.
I grew ten years older each night. Months passed and soon I, too, carried a gun. Whatever child had been left of Samara at that point, was wiped out clean. I dedicated the following ten years of my life to finding the people who had torn my family apart, and bringing down the men who ruled our country with such loose chaos. Occasionally, our camp would be discovered by enemies, but we always had God and the truth on our side. Until one day, while Karam and I were out hunting food for the camp, a man larger than Mohammed, the jail keeper, came out of the bushes with raging red eyes. We fought him with all our might, but he did not come alone... and that is how I ended up here, and Karam probably ended up somewhere in heaven." Samara bowed to hide the tears that threatened to fall.
"Now, they want me to become a traitor like them; to reveal the truth about Sargent Joe’s efforts. But I spit in their faces and they wipe off that spit by lashing me. Idiots. They don’t know that my voice is in a place their whips cannot reach. A place powered by this,” She made a fist with her right hand and pounded the upper left side of her chest.
"The heartless butchers try as they may to bruise my skin and break my bones, hoping they may reach my soul and destroy that too; but it is wed to a cause forever immune to their blades."
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
So that, my children, is why we tauntingly sing of Butchers.
“Is she dead now Ms. Maha?” asked a young face among the keen Afribian audience.
"No, baby love. No." Said Maha
"Samara is Afribia, and Afribia never dies. She’s right here, in the sand, the wind, the Nile; between your veins and arteries and on the petals of every Hibiscus flower. She dances around Afribia weightlessly now. All that those bad men did was free her from a body that would have gotten old and useless anyways. Samara, the daughter to Christian Black-African Nuha, and Muslim Arabian Salah, lives on forever in these tales that my mother, Nahed, once told me. Today, I pass it on to you so that you may later tell your children and they, theirs."
"Samara is Afribia, and Afribia never dies. She’s right here, in the sand, the wind, the Nile; between your veins and arteries and on the petals of every Hibiscus flower. She dances around Afribia weightlessly now. All that those bad men did was free her from a body that would have gotten old and useless anyways. Samara, the daughter to Christian Black-African Nuha, and Muslim Arabian Salah, lives on forever in these tales that my mother, Nahed, once told me. Today, I pass it on to you so that you may later tell your children and they, theirs."
As Maha patted one of the children on the head and got up to tend to supper, she saw a little girl extend her arm to her friend who, in turn, stroked her palm open with his fingers and began to sing,
The butcher, the butcher
The Kisrah and the stew
The butcher, the butcher
Where lies the home of your groom?
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