You talk of hatred, bullets, bombs
and bad memories. Here
we inherit these things
from our fathers and mothers, who
in turn inherited them from theirs and sometimes their uncles and aunts too. For generations now we have fought to retain what is ours. We are the terrorists, anti-nationalists and even petty thieves and murderers. When our families find our dead and mutilated bodies, they do the last rites in secrecy and honor us as martyrs and heroes as best as they can. This is
our way of life. Fighting, fighting, freedom fighting. And, I trained my son to wield a gun when he turned three. Who knows how soon it will be time for him to assume the mantle of man of the house?
Our women learn
to sing and cook and sew up open wounds
as easily as they learn to make
crude bombs. Our legends sing
of war, but this, our existence is a legend too that we will pass down to our children's children, should our race survive
this holocaust that rages quietly
in the jungles, the streams and hill slopes, while our history is not worth the price of newsprint. That is why we create new songs to last us through the day and each day brings with it a new war with its new ways, and the battles are waged seemingly following the same pattern of blood red pain and bone white cries. As the thrashing
of the river carp shining
deathly silver in the sunlight, the distant toll of falcons cutting air beside military copters, the wilting of the Morning Glory leaving behind its shy perfume, and all these insignificant, ordinary things that still bring joy remain seemingly fixed to a certain gap in time hanging in the endless space of mankind's history. So our beliefs, our faiths tread silently through the forest paths, and you, your people have no idea at all of the secret songs beating a hidden history of a people that you don't even consider human.
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