BEYOND INSANITY

Going Behind the Lines
Chapter 12

THE FOOTSTEPS ECHOED behind James Zonn, and he felt his legs weakening, and protesting their movements. It was too early to face another danger, he knew that well. The steps were crunching behind him, and at one point he wanted to run. But why would he run?

He was no criminal, just someone who had been freed from bondage.
By now he was beside one of the many zinc shacks scattered near the Buzzi Quarters, and his mind urged him to find a hide out. Until now he was beginning to feel that his personal sufferings were somehow, if not all, at least, a little over. He had, somehow, the premonition that despite the goodness of the man who had set him free, there were more dangers in the future.

He could, he admitted, leave the city and find his way to where the new soldiers were claiming they were controlling, and might be accepted or welcomed. But from central Monrovia to the hinterland, and with the manner the soldiers were checking all those they came into contact with, it might be another or an unusual miracle, and a help from above, before he could be clear of the influences and the domain of the soldiers who had lost their primary focus of providing safety for every Liberian, and even the resident.

“Who are you there?”
The voice was louder, and he could feel his legs, this time shaking. “Lord, not this time, please.” It was a plea to the God of heaven, since he felt that he could no longer stand another round of the suffering he had endured. True, there was so much that a person could take.

With his heart panting, Zonn turned around, and what he saw calmed his heat. By now the footsteps had reached near him, and he could see the face of the person.

“You almost scared me to death.” His response might have taken the other surprise, when she said, “Fear not, for I’m also in danger, and am fleeing from the enemy of the Liberian people.”

This meeting was one of the quieter moments, for our hero. The woman, about five foot six inches, looked frail, and Zonn did not need a soothsayer to inform him that she was coming from the kind of dungeon that he had been rescued by the kindly act of God. Yes, she could be one of the voices he had heard in the dark of the many nights, in the dungeon behind where he was held.

“The man saved me, and asked me to follow you,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulders. “I was there for eight days, and as you can see, the food in my hand is the only food I have ever had.”

“Did he give it to you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“I tried but he wouldn’t allow me to know.”
“Let’s pray for him, then.”
“I told him before I left that God must be with him.”
“Did he tell you he was a Krahn and that if you survive, remember that all Krahn people are not wicked, and would not want us to die?”
“He said such words to me.”
“Were there any other girls in your prison?”
“Yes, there are still fifteen more there. The youngest one told me she is twelve, and there were other old women there, too.”
“How old are the women?”

“Out of the fifteen, six were women in the age group of forty to fifty five.”
James Zonn thought about it for a moment and gave a deep sigh. By now they were clear of the Executive Mansion area, following the direction the Good Samaritan had given them. They could see the Buzzi Quarters to the left and an abandoned Gas Station sitting forlornly to the right.

“I don’t even know you,” Zonn said, wanting to know his companion. A flicker of smile swept across the other’s face, and in a voice full of concern and appreciation, said, “I am Korlu. I’m twenty eight, and I thank God that we are free from the jail.” Zonn wanted to ask her about the treatment received, at her end. While in the den, he heard, on several occasions, the cries of women, pleading in tears not to be hurt. He considered that act to be the time when they were being raped. How he wanted to ask Korlu! However, he could not bring himself to ask her, for he knew the shame that affects a woman, when her honor is robbed, and in this case, by soldiers, a people who were supposed to be their protectors.

His mind was so occupied when he heard Korlu say, “I was abused in the jail, and the others, were always abused too.” Zonn’s eyes did not betray the horrible story or rape, or abuse, as the young woman had confessed. He knew her confession had come because of their suffering, which had been together, though the women and men were kept separately. Then he heard Korlu’s sniffing, indicating she was crying for the shame she endured at the dungeon.

“Hold your heart,” Zonn urged her, holding her hand, “For God will pay your debt. Now, to be safe from these soldiers, we’ll be ok to leave Monrovia for good.”

“I wish I can leave Monrovia,” she admitted, “because I’m not sure my parents and brothers are where I last saw them.”

“Where did you live?”
“Slipway, near the New Bridge,” she said. “It is likely that most of the people there have left, since several houses were set ablaze just before our house was raided. I’m not sure my father even survived, because he was very sick and we were planning to send him to the country, the day before the soldiers came.”

“Then I suggest that we depart for Nimba,” Zonn pressed on, “since it may not be safe for you to return to Slipway.”

Zonn could feel her companion changing her mind. He could agree that since being a Gio or Mano in Monrovia was too dangerous with the soldiers all over the place, and since they were questioning civilians, and now that they had been released by a Good Samaritan, it was likely that the soldiers who had taken them prisoners might go back there looking for them. Then something bothered him. What about those in the bush? True, he heard all along that they were Gios, and Manos. Would they treat them differently, than the soldiers? And one trump card he possessed was the ability to speak the tribal language of his people. With his eyes gleaming for help, and some kind of confidence sweeping over him, he felt some feeling of triumph, and goodness.

But again, should the new group in the bush decide that he must join their army, then what? No, it was too early to think on that. Whenever it became a reality, he would find a way to deal with it. Despite the treatment he had received, he had no intention to join in anybody’s army. He was in deep thought over what might happen in the future when his companion said, “I have a problem.”

“What problem, Korlu?”
“The problem of going behind the lines.”
“Which means what?”
“I am Krahn.”

“You’re what? Why did they keep you in the dungeon, then?”
“Because I could not show the soldiers where my husband, who is a Gio, was hiding when they came to our house to kill him.” Zonn’s breathing became hard. The news from the hinterland was bad. It was bad for the Krahn people, and here he was asking a Krahn woman to escape with him. So, what dialect did she speak? That could help if she spoke Gio or Mano alongside the Krahn ethnic dialect.

“What language do you speak beside Krahn?”
“None other than English.”

Zonn felt immediately spent. He couldn’t understand why. It might signify, he reasoned, that taking the woman with him to “Behind the Lines” as the areas controlled by the rebels were described, would unleash another round of trial for him. He didn’t care about the tribe or ethnicity of the woman. All he cared about was that she was a Liberian, like him, suffering at the hands of killers and animals. And like him, she needed redemption and a secured environment. Since others had sacrificed for him to live, he wouldn’t mind sacrificing his life for Korlu.

And so to “Behind the Lines” they went together.