Charlene

My mother yells at me to rise from my sleep. I worked all of yesterday and am extremely tired. There is more work today though. So I listen to my mother. I sit up on my cot and look through the cracked concrete of our home, towards the rice paddy fields, and I see the men’s heads bobbing. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. It’s a continuous rhythmic motion as they tend the paddies. Up and down. Up and down. Just like my sister’s when the young men come to visit her. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Mother is upon me now, braiding my hair. And nagging. She always nags. Clean your boots after working. Brush your hair. Stop being mean to your little brother. It’s never ending with her. She yanks on my hair as she sloppily braids. She is done now, and it’s time to get dressed. I am the middle child. The most unloved. I am rewarded with my elder siblings’ old rags, while they receive newer clothes. As for my younger siblings, they will receive the rags I wear now when they become my age. It’s how things work. 

My hut is small but the village we belong to is smaller. There are a few large buildings in the village square, but Father doesn’t let me go with him when he visits. He goes once every two weeks to buy food and other supplies. It’s 45 minutes on scooter, 2 hours on foot. It all depends on how fast you’re moving. He buys rice, milk, vegetables, fruit, kerosene, bandages, alcohol, and medicine. We must buy our food from the markets. We aren’t allowed to use the rice we grow. It goes to the Cause. 

They arrived in our village–guns in hand–early one morning. Before the men had even left for the fields. From on top of my hut, where mother dries the laundry, I could see the cloud of dust traveling closer and closer. I jumped down and landed hard on a rock. My foot was cut. I limped inside to notify Father. His face wore a solemn mask. To my mother he said I will be back. Do not leave or go anywhere or do anything until I have returned. Do you understand? My mother nodded. He exited the opening in the wall. He never looked at me or said anything. When he walked past me I looked into his eyes and saw his death. I cried in the corner with my mother all that day. Hours passed. Then we heard the drapes of our home flap open. It wasn’t Father. It was a man. It wasn’t a friend. It was an enemy. It wasn’t a human. It was a soldier.