The Mist-Eyed People-5: The Fog of War Novel |
Unfortunately, not everyone shared that man's ideological motives. Men like Lah—and a handful of others, including those who had received military training abroad—represented the small elite at the top of the hierarchy. Beneath them were those who took up arms out of a desire for revenge. Their parents had been killed, their property seized, their homes burned, and their sisters raped. Their dignity had been trampled upon. In such circumstances, death ceased to be a terrifying prospect. Had such things befallen your own family, you might well have done the same—and you would understand why we chose this path.
I met many people like that. I often wondered if I, too, was one of them. I had joined their ranks after my mother, sister, and brother fell victim to the violence, and after watching my home reduced to ash. Yet, I felt different from those driven by vengeance. To my mind, revenge was not a sufficiently powerful motive to sustain this struggle; it was merely a fleeting emotional reaction to the atrocities we had endured. I needed a long-term purpose—though, to this day, I have yet to find one. That is what set me apart, however slightly, from those fueled by a thirst for retribution.
Sometimes, my thoughts went even further. Had I not seen the state of my mother’s, sister’s, and brother’s bodies, perhaps my rage would never have reached such a fever pitch. I would not be standing here among these other guerrillas. But at the time, I had desperately wanted to see my loved ones, even though some locals tried to stop me. I witnessed with my own eyes how their bodies had been torn apart. Fragments of their hearts and internal organs had been reduced to shreds, staining the fronts of their clothes. There were only small entry wounds on their backs, yet their chests and abdomens were utterly devastated, as if struck by a grenade.
At the time, I did not understand why. Now, however, I know: they had been shot from behind. When a bullet strikes the body, it creates an entry wound only slightly larger than the projectile itself. However, upon exiting, the projectile tumbled, destroying internal tissues and leaving behind a larger hole.
Recalling the details of this incident makes my blood boil. I can picture the moment the three people I loved were shot while fleeing in terror. They were unarmed and posed no threat whatsoever—not even to a goat wandering into our yard. Ironically, we were among the few families who truly loved this country.
We rejected the struggle for independence, believing that independence is a one-time event that had already been achieved. If we had faced injustice—having our assets drained and our people beaten—it was something experienced by almost every region. We believed that violence was not the solution to our problems. They should have protected us, not subjected us to such barbaric treatment—treatment no animal should ever have to endure!
Do not think that our love for this country came without sacrifice. Every year, we faced threats simply because of the flag we were required to display on Independence Day. We would fly the flag for a week, and throughout that time, we lived in fear. Sometimes guerrillas would take the flag, and if we lacked the money to buy a replacement, soldiers or police would come to question us.
Once again, we would feel intimidated. They often didn't care whether we had the money or not; the flag had to be displayed regardless. In the end, we were forced to sell our rice just to buy a flag. That was how those soldiers—men who hadn't even finished high school—defined patriotism: through a single piece of cloth. It was utterly superficial.
We could not comprehend how we found ourselves intimidated by both sides of the conflict. We were like the grass caught between two fighting elephants. Neither elephant died; we were the ones who suffered.
Half-jokingly, I often likened the situation to the rape of the Devil’s child. The Devil would be furious that his child had been violated, yet God would also be angry, as rape is a grave sin. The trouble is, in this scenario, I couldn't tell who was playing the role of the Devil and who was playing God. They took turns playing both roles. After all, both sides would often say: “Death may indeed be in God’s hands, but today, your life and death are in mine!”
Continued in Part 6