“Go to sleep Mama, we will finish the work in the morning.”
Yill was standing in the narrow entrance to his mother’s sleeping room. In his mind he thought of it as a “sleeping room”, but of course everyone's definition of things rely on their own individual experience.
In this case, a dirt floor, enclosed in walls made of bamboo framing with palm fronds lashed to them, defined what a sleeping room was.
In other countries, a space used for sleeping may be called a “bedroom.” He had no defined notion of what a bed was.
The sun had long since set. His two younger sisters had fallen asleep to a story he had told them, and now he wanted his Mama to quiet herself and find her way to a deep chasm of sleep.
The “Hammer” had come to their village today, and Yill had been singled out for interrogation. Yill was big for a 14 year old, and the interrogation only ceased when The “Hammer” was told by a subordinate that the "man" he had suspended, upside down by ropes, with hooks embedded into his thighs, was only a boy of 14.
When Yill was lowered to the ground, he kept his eyes averted from all of the military personnel present, quickly turned, and made his way back home. This post-torture behavior seemed to be genetically embedded in all of the villagers.
Victims of systematic and routine torture become able to emotionally detach from horrific events. This is a gift of evolution, which allows our delicate emotional and psychological systems to be spared the harshest blunt force trauma that torture can cause us mentally.
The torture he endured this morning, emotionally seemed like a long time ago, and already his mind was transforming the memory to one where someone else had actually endured it.
The only reminder that he had endured anything, was the blood that was still seeping from the wounds on the front and back of his thighs, creating crimson circles on his leggings.
Yill checked on Mama and his sisters one last time and was relieved to hear even and deep respirations coming from their sleeping rooms.
He went into his sleeping room and laid himself down on the dirt, eyes staring straight up. The blackness was so complete, he could see nothing.
Slowly, his eyes closed, and his respirations began to slow and deepen. He slowly inhaled and then slowly exhaled. He could feel the throbbing of his wounds with each heartbeat.
His remaining family had all survived another day. He had done well. The day before he disappeared, Yill’s father had pulled him aside and said “If something happens to me, take care of your mother and sisters.”
A slight smile came upon him. It was a self-satisfied, prideful smile, and it was well deserved. He prayed that his father’s murder had been swift and painless.
Yill heard slow and cautious footsteps approaching the entrance to his sleeping room and wondered which of his sisters could not sleep. Some mornings he would awake, with both of his sisters cuddled against him.
But, the footsteps stopped, and there was only silence.
Terror gripped him completely. This was the way that The “Hammer” had taken his father many years ago.
Yill kept perfectly still, waiting for a hand to cover his mouth, and for the torturous hands of The “Hammer”’s men to envelope him, and then carry him away to a fate worse than any death, the same fate that befell his father.
His stillness was not weakness, but was his expression of love for his mother and sisters. If they were to wake up, they too would be taken away to their certain deaths. His going quietly would be keeping the promise he had made to his father one last time.
But, he was not touched.
He was confused and just as he was about to whisper, “Who is there?” a voice, from the entrance to his sleeping room said, “It’s Time.” This was followed by the sound of careful footsteps moving away.
The fear that he suddenly felt was deeper than any The “Hammer” had ever been able to instill. He knew that he must act immediately, or the opportunity would be lost.
“It’s Time.”
It was over one year ago when his best friend had told him that these would be the simple code words. These words would mean that the time had come when both of them could escape. He asked Yill if he was interested. Yill had nodded.
Yill was sworn to secrecy, and told that he would need to leave immediately when the time came, or he would be left behind. Their window of opportunity would be extremely small.
Only the clothes on his back, and a small pouch with specific contents, could be taken. Americans call this a go-bag.
He stood, left his sleeping room, and went outside to where his animals slept. Their enclosure was a rock wall. He moved quickly to the corner of it, and began to push stones away, eventually exposing a leather pouch.
All Yill knew was where he was to meet his best friend. They would travel there separately, along different routes. He was to meet at the predetermined place by sunrise of the fourth day, or he would be left behind. There would be weeks or months after that, with only a slight chance of reaching freedom.
Yill did not know anything else. All he had was faith in his best friend’s word.
He started to walk and turned back to look at the moonlit silhouettes of his family’s sleeping rooms.
Silent tears were running down his cheeks as he felt the guilt from the pain his actions would cause his mother and sisters. He did not risk sharing any of these details with them. This was for their protection. When they were interrogated and tortured regarding his whereabouts, he knew that their sincere denials would be recognized, and their suffering minimized.
His family would assume he had been taken as his father had been. The thoughts of them reliving that chapter in their lives almost made him throw his leather pouch in the river, and return to his sleeping room.
But he was doing this all for them.
He wanted to tell them that he loved them. He wanted to tell them to be strong. He wanted to tell them that he would never abandon them.
Mostly, he wanted to tell them that he was leaving them, only so he could someday come back for them and help them escape.
And someday,
he did ....
