The chubby-cheeked face
peeks out of the clothes that warms it and smiles at the love emanating from
his mother’s face. He peers to his other side and sees his sister bouncing in
place as she looks at him expectantly. The man he’s come to recognize and whose
voice booms from the depths of his chest is not visible. Still, he feels
secure. Why shouldn’t he? Rana’s world is small. He recognizes just the people
who cherish him most. Still, something seems not right. From the look at his
sister, nothing appears to be wrong, but a second glance at his mother’s face,
her tightly clenched hands, and her worried eyes speak of something he doesn’t
know. Rana hears crying, but it’s not him…and it doesn’t come just from one
place. Cries bounce against the mud-brick walls and flow liquidly from hut to hut.
To Rana, these cries are about more than wanting food. Even in his short life,
he recognizes cries from the heart, not just the belly. Could his father’s
absence be related to this reverberating and piercing outcry among the walls of
huts?
Days would pass, Rana and
his sister, Roxana, would become familiar with others holding, feeding, and
watching over them. Nights of long walks and whispers would become the new norm
for Rana and Roxana. Days of hiding in bushes and having hands cover their mouths
felt suffocating. Where is Papa? Why doesn’t Mama smile anymore? Where did the
joy in Roxana’s face and walk go?
Many dark days and weeks have
passed. Mama doesn’t cry in the dark anymore. Roxana doesn’t dance anymore. She
sits and stares blankly at the ground. I cry, but am not always heard. Papa is
missing from the family still. Life, it seems, is not easy.
My clothing is tight. My
ears have learned many new sounds. Sounds of bass booms and rapid-fire pellets
hitting trees. I have missed hearing the birds and fear the sounds of the night
animals. I wish Papa was here. I would be safe. Will I ever be safe again?
Roxana would have been 6
today. I miss seeing her face full of joy and her bounce of excitement. Mama
tells me she was too small and too sick. She went to Papa, wherever he is. Mama
never smiles anymore. She always looks for roots and bugs. I wish we could eat
the food my people tell me they used to eat. For now, I am always hungry; a
little bug or a stick lined with them is not enough to fill my stomach. Even
Mama notices I am small for my age. The clothes I wear as a four-year-old are
Roxana’s clothes from when she was two. What must life have been like back home,
wherever home was?
Today, I am a man; I am
thirteen. Mama and Papa are not here to celebrate with me. Roxana was too small
and sick. No more voices of laughter and love echo around me; I am without
family. I live as part of the group of orphan boys. We take care of ourselves…mostly.
It would be nice to have a Mama and Papa. I see others who are Mamas and Papas
and wish I had one of them, too. Maybe then I could feel a hug, see joy, eat
meat, celebrate life. Maybe one day, I will get to be with Mama, Papa, and
Roxana again. The other Mamas say not to talk like that, but I want what they
were to me. I want family.
