The Cleaning Up

THE CLEANING UP

Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.
-Isaac Asimov

I
Kamal slowly opened his eyes to the slanting, bright sun rays falling on his face. The warmth had waked him up. He tried to move his stiff right arm from under his head and with some difficulty managed to stir himself up. He looked around him and all he could see were rising mountains, some bare, some covered in greenery and the burnt remains of a farmhouse in the distance.

The young lad had never been so far away from home and it looked so alien, without the sign of any life except the birds chirping. He remembered how, on his last birthday; that was when he turned 14, he was playing with his cousins and they got away far from their village chasing after the butterflies. They were found by a rescue party several hours later and brought back to village. Kamal closed his eyes. If that was bad then this was a disaster. And he sat motionless like that for an hour or so.

A gunshot was heard in the distance, followed by several more. He awoke with a start. The sun was hot enough and his stomach was already rumbling. He had covered eight miles the last night, ran and walked and then ran again until his legs gave way. “I want to eat.” He thought to himself and got up.

Even after several hours of walking there was nothing more visible except the vast, sloping and rising landscape. The sun rays burnt him, made his throat dry but he continued to drag his feet along.

He again opened his eyes, lying in the same position, but the situation looked to be better. He was lying over a bed of straw. The air was still hot, but the shade was cool. “Ah there you are! Where do you think were you wandering like that? If my son had not found you lying there all stretched, you’d be gone.”
Kamal turned his head to find an old man with grey beard in the corner of the shanty house. He smacked his lips, running his tongue over his dry lips. “You must be very thirsty. Have some water from the bottle by your bed” said the greybeard sexagenarian. Kamal looked down, took up the bottle and stared at it for a moment before gulping down half of the water in one go.

“What is your name? Where are you from?” asked the old man again. He only shook his head in response. The old man now stood by his side. “Can you understand me or are you deaf?” he asked with some concern. “Yes” was the reply. “So where are you from? What are you doing here?” “I don’t remember anything. I want some food.” And the poor kid broke down in tears, sobbing “Mom, mom”. The old man was gone for a moment and shortly returned with a pot of soup, some bread and smoked meat. As Kamal devoured the food, the old chap looked intently. “Say, are you lost? You really can’t recall anything?” He finished off the food rather quickly and lied down again. He slumbered off soon without answering any questions.

The old man shook his head, cleaned up the pots and went out. The noon sun was just reclining westward. “Nikola, did the boy gain consciousness?” asked a stout man walking by the house. “Oh yes, but he slept off again” shouted our old man in his frail voice. “See you” “See you, too.” The other man strode off straight in the narrow street. Finding nothing else to do, Nikola got back into his house.

Just then there was some shouting, indistinguishable at first but the sound of ‘fire, fire’ could be heard. It was a small village, more like a hillside hamlet. Nikola started off and Kamal, who apparently was not asleep, also got up. He was stupefied at first but then he followed Nikola. The voice came westwardly, in the direction of setting sun. Off from the next bend they could see a large house on fire. Nikola, already out of breath, walked slowly, but Kamal ran off to the scene.

About fifty or sixty people were there, some trying to put out the fire with water, some just standing and watching, and two women holding and consoling a bewailing woman who was crying “My daughter, my Nada.” There were muffled cries from the inside. There indeed was a girl trapped in the house fire. When Nikola reached there, someone greeted him “Hey Nikola. It looks like Petar’s gonna lose his daughter. She’s inside and nobody is willing to go in. Bad thing Petar’s squad is still on duty. Oh anyways what about that boy your son rescued. And...” He’d have said more but for the commotion that broke out. Kamal had grabbed someone’s cloak and was rushing into the burning, collapsing house. “That is the boy, isn’t it? What does he think he is; a hero?” it was the same person who commented.

The people were now silent save for a few whispers. Some prayed. Those who were pouring water had also stopped now, for the fire was out of control and a wind was blowing. Minutes passed like hours, the house was collapsing now. But Kamal did make his way out, with a young girl of 12 or 13 wrapped in the now half burnt cloak. The people ran towards them.

II
Three weeks had already passed since Kamal came to the village. He had suffered some severe burns. For two weeks he was recuperating in Nikola’s house. Nada, who escaped with just some burns to her arms visited him daily, at first accompanied by her mother and then by herself. Having nothing more to do, he chatted with her for so long as she was there and within those two bed-ridden weeks they were fast friends. They confided in each other, for young souls have very little of those dirty sinful secrets of adult that they won’t share with anybody. She told him how she loved her house more than her uncle’s house where she was staying now or how dumb her friend Adrijana is or how she missed her daddy, just the things a young girl would say to her buddy. And he told him how the war and massacre drove him out of his home.

Then one day there was a knock on old Nikola’s house. Nikola opened the door to find Petar standing there. He was a tall man, in his thirties with grave grey eyes. There was something distinguished in his airs. “Is that young boy who saved my daughter here? I want to thank him.” “Him? He and your daughter should be in the backyard.”

He turned and walked towards the backyard, thinking what he’d say to the young rescuer. Sure, there they were. She was sitting on the ground smiling while he cut small sticks with a pen-knife giving it a humanoid shape. Petar observed the two merry children silently for some time and then cried out “Nada, dear Nada.” She looked up and ran towards his father screaming who hugged her and lifted her up in his arms.

The younger man looked at the older man, first with envy and then with hatred. When Petar was aware of his gaze he set his daughter down and said “Thank you young lad, for saving my daughter’s life. What is your name?” There was no answer.  “Hey are you listening?” Kamal looked on and suddenly shot “Aren’t you in the army?” As Petar questioningly nodded, a déjà vu moment dawned upon both, they recognized each other and the next moment Kamal was at Petar’s throat, trying to stab him and slice his throat with his pen-knife. But as reason stands, a 14 year old stands hardly chance against a sturdy 30 year old soldier even if the former is armed with a pen-knife, a fairly useless weapon so to say.

A frightened Nada screamed and ran off to Nikola’s house while Petar wrestled with Kamal before pinning him to the ground. He threw Kamal’s pen-knife and then dragged him by his legs. The boy tried kicking furiously, futilely. He was dragging him through the streets before Nikola and Nada reached them. “What’s wrong Petar? Let the boy go, let him go.” Nikola said. “He is a Bosniak bas**rd. We killed thousands of them down in Srebrenica. I killed his parents and I am going to kill this son of a bit** myself” growled Petar. Nikola looked at Kamal with pitiful eyes and then pleaded again “But what has he done to you? He even saved your daughter. You let him go!” But Petar turned a deaf ear and dragged him with Nikola and Nada following him, the former pleading and the latter looking with frightened eyes.

Soon they reached Nada’s uncle’s house. Petar shouted “Death to the infiltrators. Death to the heathens. Death to the god-damned Bosniaks. Come brothers; let us clear our land of these filthy vermin.” Petar went on with his pejoratives and expletives, gathering a small crowd. Some looked at Kamal with apathy, some with curiosity but most were of disgust and distrust.

Within all this suffocation, Kamal recalled how his village was attacked by the Serbian soldiers and the blue helmeted soldiers who were there to protect their village just dragged themselves into a compound, doing nothing. He could remember his father and older brother being marched from their home along with other older males of village. In all this chaos, his mother put him in a dark corner into a precipice in wall and concealed it by piling household items in front and then told him to be silent until she called for him. He remembered the screaming of his mother and despite what she had said; he got out, only to find his mother almost naked and forced on the bed by a Serbian soldier. The shocked boy looked on as the soldier fulfilled his primitive desires.

Kamal found a saucepan and hit him hard with it on his head. The blow, being both unanticipated and coming at a very pleasurable time for him, dizzied him for a moment. Kamal’s mother noticed her son and screamed “Run Kamal, run!” And run he did, knowing not what else to do. His Mother’s screams still rang loudly in his ears.

He came back to reality when he found his hands tied, he was being tied to a pole. He was going to be executed. Kamal spat on his executor’s face who rubbed it off and smiled viciously.

“I’ll kill him the way I killed his mother.” Said Petar, who was now armed with his rifle, and there was a loud support from the lynching crowd. He raised his rifle, brought it down and pushed the bayonet forcefully into his stomach. He wrung it and pushed upwards before drawing it out. “There goes down another pest.” He screamed raising his bloody rifle eliciting another cheer.

The crowd dispersed slowly and only two remained standing over the corpse, a young girl and an old man. And I tell you, not more than four drops of tears were wasted on our unfortunate protagonist.

The young minds                    innocent and fair
Why corrupt ‘em with blood and gore
Of killing and war                    the world had its share
Violence has no solution in its store.

[PS: I wrote this after reading the following article on BBC http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-18099008]