A Man

A man

We walked through the dark vegetation, fear ran down our necks mingling with sweat. In the humid Bolivian rainforest 2000 men trooped in search of a man, The Man who had set South America ablaze. That primal fear that men sense when they feel something more powerful than themselves, That is what I felt, I believed I was going to kill a legend... I had yet to understand. I felt sick in my stomach, our leaders were CIA agents, our guide a Nazi war criminal and here we were trying to kill a hero, the people’s hero. I trudged through the thick mires, every suffering a punishment from God for obeying the corrupt politicians and money-hungry bastards.


We found the camp deep in the Yuro ravine, that day I realised that those men with their beliefs were worth twenty of us conscripted soldiers. Through the green, chaotic, tangles of the jungle they fought like lions each of the ‘brigands’ cursing us as they went down, fighting for freedom. Free men who died free men, nothing is more noble, nothing is more tragic. In that nightmarish land gun shots rung till the forest fell still. The leader lay there, wounded upon the floor, blood seeping into the earth. We picked him up carrying his saint-like body to our headquarters. Victory? Yes, but an empty one, the people had lost. I wept inside to see the bodies adorning the floor, riddled with our bullets.


On that stone floor he lay, shivering in the cold. Still, despite his ragged features, his wounds and gashes he looked defiantly into our eyes. Every second in his company condemned me to a sleepless night. This was the evening before his death; he spoke to me that day, his voice cool and relaxed.


“Comrade, do you have anything to smoke?”


I bit my lip nervously, looked over my shoulder and took out a tobacco box


“Here, sir” I slipped some of the dry, brown tobacco into his blood-stained hands.


He took me by the wrist, his grip firm and strong. Eyes looking into mine, he smiled.


“Thank you comrade.”


I watched him curiously as he lit his pipe and began to hum happily, smoke puffing around the room, free. As I spoke, our officer, a fat little man from a rich family entered the room; he watched the man for a while piggy eyes staring. As the prisoner finished his pipe, the officer strode forwards pompously; hands reaching out to grab the pipe.


“You’ll be dead soon, as will your revolution. This pretty pipe will by my souvenir.” He mocked


“Souvenir, pah” the prisoner spat “You see this at its basic, material value, what we see is the pleasure it gives, the warmth it brings. That is why you will falter. That is where YOU are wrong.”


He pushed himself up the wall and stared defiantly into the man’s podgy face.


“You have still not understood. What really matters is that the individual feels more complete, with much more internal richness and much more responsibility."” He chuckled, blowing smoke into the officer’s livid face.


The officer’s eyes bulged with anger, he grabbed the prisoner, wrestling with him. Even in his weakened state the prisoner managed to floor the officer, kicking him as he lay curled in a ball whimpering like an animal. Realising my duty and hating it, I pushed the prisoner back, my eyes apologising to him while I shoved him back roughly. I thought I saw understanding in his look, but maybe it was a trick of the light, in my mind I begged forgiveness.


The officer stormed out of the room, glaring at me. As I released him the prisoner handed me a piece of scrunched up paper, bloodied and torn. I stashed it in my pocket... Eager and fearful to know what it might contain.


If you tremble with indignation at every injustice then you are a comrade of mine

Those words, struck a chord in my heart. I remembered the dreams, the aspirations I had wished for as a child. I understood then that equality was not measured by wealth but by happiness, that injustice was not a question of a lack of equality but of a lack of hope; each child should be born with the same right: the right to hope. The man, who had written those words, brought us hope and he was going to die for ‘hope’ for an ideal. I saw his bloodied face once again and wept, not for him alone but for humanity as a whole.


I slept badly that night, tossing and turning in the scratchy bed; I knew he was going to die come dawn. Finally, I threw back the covers and crept from my bed to the holding place for prisoners, the guards easily encouraged by my pesos let me past. I found the prisoner sitting, thoughtful on the floor.


“Comrade” I said, he turned “Are you thinking about your immortality?”


“No, I am thinking about the immortality of the revolution.” His answer silenced me. I turned and began to leave.


I still could not understand, though the truth was dawning on me as the sun began to rise. Through the doors burst the drunken sergeant, pushing past me his hat astray. He looked at the prisoner in disgust and lifted his gun. He paused, swaying on his feet.


“I know you've come to kill me. Shoot, coward! You are only going to kill a man!” growled the prisoner.


Nine bursts rang out; the prisoner was bleeding his life onto the floor. Face ashen, hair matted, crimson blood painting the floor. His words echoed in my head “Only a man”, the revolution will live on.


Viva la revolución!

Impressum

Texte: Typhen
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.08.2012

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