Beyond the bamboo structures I see a group of men and women digging graves with whatever they can find; a hoe with a splintered handle, a palm branch, an earthen bowl, while others kneel using their bare hands. Last night’s raid left many dead: men, women, husbands, fathers, mothers, wives, daughters, sons.
I watch from a distance as the village elder argues with a young boy holding onto a tree branch too tall to place under his arm for stability. The boy’s left leg is bandaged from thigh to ankle in a blood-soaked cloth, his right arm, slender, with fingers extended reaches out to the shoulder of a young girl, his sister, while a smaller child is nestled between them. The elder points his machete towards the truck but the boy refuses saying he wants to stay.
Beyond the bamboo structures the group of men and women return, their heads lowered, shoulders slumped, the weight of laying to rest so many burdens their pace as they labor to move one foot in front of the next. They stop when they hear the elder shouting at the boy and his sisters. They quicken their stride and arrive in the village to see the frightened faces of children huddle in the back of the truck.
I watch from a distance as the village elder grabs the tree branch and throws it to the ground. The boy struggles to maintain his balance, his sister hurries to his injured side to keep him from falling. The elder points his machete to the truck telling him to go. The boy stands firm, his arms stretched over the shoulders of his sisters. “This is where we belong not in an orphanage. My ancestors are buried here, my parents wait for us to mourn over their graves, and when we die, we will be buried here. This is my village, you are my people and if you send us away we will find our way back.” The village elder is silent. He raises his machete high into the air before slamming it firmly into the branch on the ground, cutting the base. He picks up the limb and hands it to the boy who places it under his arm.
Beyond the bamboo structures the elder gathers with his people to say farewell to those who have died. I watch from a distance as the empty truck leaves for the next village.
from Living with the Dead, by William Huntsman