9/24/2004

The price of precaution (part 1)

I walked into the small columbian village, small dirty houses, children peering out of windows, men sitting at the front of their homes, doing nothing. The women shuffled about, and everybody seemed to be very busy at being idle.

The faces of the people were open, there was none of the hardness I had seen in new york. The people suffered here differently, they suffered with innocence, they kept their eyes open as they were tortured, and afterwards, they felt anger and hate, but they did not become bitter. Their eyes did not stop smiling, their faces might have worn out, but they did not collapse into bitter despair.

We walked in slowly, dust raised by our tramping boots. The people looked at us, interested, afraid, but they looked at us without curiousity, and without fear. The sun was bright, but shone in a disinterested manner, the wind was weak, and tugged through without caring for the people. It was a different place, a place where people noticed our faces but not our guns.

My face would have smiled, but it did not. Laughter had become difficult, my smile, when it did come, was strange.

Things were falling apart everywhere, I did not trust anyone, and I felt at the mercy of other people, people I was not sure I really knew. Left and right, walking with me were men with guns, men with beards that masked their faces, lenses the hid their eyes, heavy boots that pounded the floor, minds that had been trained to kill. I did not know them, but I knew they were dangerous.

In the end, I'm not a mercenary. I'm a doctor, I'm an analyst, I'm a technical operator. I push buttons, I handle radios, I ask questions. But this time, I was a soldier like every other of the men, expendible, deletable, if I were killed, none of this strangers would mourn.

I questioned how many of them actually knew what my name was. They had told me their names, but I had mostly forgotten. And I did not really care, I had been alone in the concrete jungle too long.

In the real jungle, I had been alone, but never isolated. In New York, there had been people, people everywhere, but not a soul to speak to. And now that I had left, I had no wish to speak with them any longer. I felt as if I had left society for a bit, and I had been able to observe it from that park bench, and I had not only looked this time, but I had actually seen.

And what I had seen was indescribable, but unforgetable. I had seen the dishumanity of the human, I had seen how unworthy they all were. I had seen them naked, seen their souls, and I had hated them.

Their disregard for me had made me hate them, and it was easy for me to not speak to those men. As it would be easy for me to kill them.

4 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

If the sitution in New York wins out, you have let life, (and I quote) "kick you in the balls". Remember making that statement?
Your friend
ygw

7:29 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

HAHA the people were afraid of you but didn't fear you. Priceless looked like you failed more than GYM class.

1:41 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

a·fraid
adj.
Filled with fear: afraid of ghosts; afraid to die; afraid for his life.

1:42 AM  
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