BEYOND INSANITY

Waiting to Die

Chapter 14

WHOEVER SAID SEEING is believing had it right, James Zonn considered that since his present predicament was in the hands of his own countrymen. It was a situation that the young Gio found it distasteful but acceptable. Who would have thought that while a Krahn Good Samaritan overlooked the misdirected vengeance against his so-called enemies and sacrificed to set him free, fellow tribesmen would do just the opposite. Now thrown in a windowless shack wedged on the grasslands of Mount Barclay, he saw his chances dwindling, and his sense of hope growing dimmer.

What was more, his companion, held in another windowless shack shrieked from time to time. Just before he was thrown into the shack, he saw a couple of hurriedly constructed sheds, with somehow crooked ceilings scattering this way and that way. It had occurred to him that the shacks were sometimes used by the soldiers to pass away the boredom, whenever they were setting ambushes for their enemies. How wrong his estimation had been.

This was a case of seeing the true colors of some of his people. He would not want to know what could or what was going on in Klubor's mind. How long had they known each other? A day and a half? He had just been released from his den, when providence, perhaps, caused them to meet. He had known all along that the war in Liberia had divided the people, with the Krahns, Mandingos on one side and the Gios on the other. The Sarpos, on the other hand, had just become mere victims, since the rebels had placed them alongside their Krahn cousins, and had declared them suitable to die.

A while ago, someone, like a woman’s shrieks reached his ears. It was when they were carrying his companion to the women shack, a stone throw away, that he thought he heard the moaning cries of a voice that he could swear was that of a woman. And despite her tears, some loud noise, like the muzzle of a gun had exploded and the woman’s shrieking had stopped. He was convinced as hell that the rebel soldiers had killed her, no they had rather murdered her.

His heart and his mind descended into some doubts, and he could not make any sense of what was happening or what he was witnessing.

He was becoming more afraid the more he considered some of the stories he had earlier heard from several other civilians who were on their way to seek shelter or refuge elsewhere. He now thought deeply about the young man’s description of the horrors meted out to Liberians of all persuasions by his native Gio brothers.

“The worst man to hold a gun,” the man, a large scar on his face, his right hand in a self-made sling, had said, “is a Gio or a Mano man.” Zonn had listened to the man’s tears in disgust, and had been able to ask him, “Did they do that to you?”

The man’s eyes had widened in horror and with some difficulty retorted, “the Gio rebels did this to me. They said I looked like an AFL soldier?”

Zonn, in apparent disbelief, which did not mean that he did not completely believe that his people could not inflict such a wound on a civilian of no consequence or threat to their ambition, nonetheless, in a voice full of consolation and sympathy, said, “It may seem that we are all in danger in this country.” It was not that he completely believed in what the badly wounded man had said, but with his own personal experience of what the soldiers in Monrovia were capable of doing, he felt there was every chance that his country men could do worse.

Now, he must endure his own agony, simply because he tried to protect a woman, a fellow Liberian, whose past suffering, joined them together, to elude the enemy, and seek safety in the confines of those who had been telling the whole world that they were fighting for freedom.

And now that he had been told he would die in thirty minutes, he saw his anger, his worry and disappointment returning to overpower him. He had initially believed that the national soldiers were taking the issue into the excess, and was bitterly angry at their disrespect to life. What he had heard and was seeing in this rebel territory, outside Monrovia, was evidence enough to render him incapable to understand the tragedy that had befallen the Liberian people and nation. It was evidently, a situation in which the ordinary Liberian caught in the divide, had nowhere to hide. The shack he was being kept did not possess anything worth to name. Since the rebel war started around 1989, no one had heard about any prisoner of war. In fact there was no place where those who had been accused for whatever reason were sent to be interrogated and possibly released. From stories he had recently learned, even for a civilian to possess an identification card of any kind could be the cause for one’s execution. It was apparent that the rebel soldiers did not know an enemy from a sympathizer. For, how could they have failed to understand that all those Liberians streaming into the areas they controlled were seeking a safe haven? Why would women and children, as well as the infirm be subjected to endless searches, floggings, and rape? Zonn now realized that the current war was a war determined to kill Liberians for sport, since the rebel soldiers and the enemies did not care about their suffering. Zonn then realized the grand opportunity that his countrymen, due to their desire to kill, had missed. He knew that had they behaved differently, they would have been welcomed as liberators. And in truth the Liberian people had hoped for a redeemer to end the chaos, a wish that the rebel soldiers failed to uphold.

He knew, from the manner things were going that his life was in a balance and could result in his own death, but on second thought, he had a sense of hope that God, once again, could perform an amazing feat, for his survival. But, then what would he do if his companion was eventually killed, since of course and in truth, she was a Krahn? “That won’t be possible,” he said to himself. It was not that he had any confidence anymore left in his expectation for his freedom. The delicate nature of the present situation rendered him incapable of understanding the kind of war that was being prosecuted in his country. The kind of rebel soldiers he had seen the morning they arrived, their behavior to each other, and their lack of respect to even the guns they slung across their backs and on their chests, indicated to him that the rebels themselves stood at the brink of self-destruction. Take for example, the boy called, “small soldier.” A ten year old, and the weapon across his back, the M16, seemed to dictate his every move. How could such a child understand the value of his own life and those of the hundreds seeking shelter in Greater Liberia? He was totally convinced of his brief experience with the rebels, and from where he was held that he knew death could come any moment.

Zonn did not have the luxury to cry this time. He would go in peace, and meet his maker, if that was what had been written in his star.

Then the door, creaked open.