by Anatolia Kozinski
I woke up to soporific, rumbling sounds. I was lying in the darkness with wet dirt on my hands that had seeped slightly into some scratches there. After adjusting myself to the throbbing of my head, I reasoned I must have been in the back of a van, but seemed larger than our own van. I could see two silhouettes of moving heads on the other side of a screen above me. I started to recover memory, and I immediately thought of Therese. Where was she? Then I remembered my incredibly stupidity, and didn’t want to think about her and her parents situation. Of course though, Therese didn’t give me enough information. How was I supposed to know there would be people coming after us?, I thought with frustration. Then I slowly began to realize what extreme danger I could be in. The guys behind the screen must be those two thugs Therese seemed to have guessed might be at that old district. Had they followed Therese’ parents from the slums? Perhaps they were members of the gangs that controlled the Southern government, but why would they be after Therese’ parents? Southerners were allowed to cross the borders. The van stopped abruptly and and the two men got out slamming the doors behind them. I managed to sit up, literally shaking. They opened the doors to the back of the van, and the sunlight hit me square in the eyes, but it did good by shocking me into full consciousness. Both arms were squeezed and I was on the ground in a second. The wind drawled as it went by: unrelieving and warm. A small bush scraped my heel as I looked up and I felt the stark dryness of the touch. It was hard to make out anything, but eventually I could discern mud huts and a few shacks that gleamed in the haze like they were fashioned out of metal. There was a large building, probably a headquarters, with a thatched roof and ruddy yard; an attempt at a very practical ‘garden’ of sorts. Then the intense smell of garbage wafted towards me with another gust of wind, but it was more visceral than city-garbage or that sort of thing...different. The plain seemed to stretch on and on like the ocean. I could see some figures in the distance, silhouetted against the sun; they seemed to be digging. Then I knew immediately where I was. The Slums.
I began to feel sweat trickling down my neck, and suddenly realized how thirsty I was. The men apparently felt no need to tie me up or give me water; they just grabbed me harshly by the arms and brought me towards the ‘headquarters’.
My head began to throb again when I was forced to walk. We came into a small room. A man emerged from the corner. He looked fair like he was from the North. He asked ( with a voice typical of a dog’s bark) the kidnappers a series of questions in a rambling southern language. They lifted up my sleeves and checked my arms, then scowled and shouted angrily. I heard the name: “There’sa”. They must have mistaken me for Therese! Then they knew Therese would be meeting her parents...what do they want with her in the first place? I guessed when they had checked my arms they were looking for her identifying scars. I began to feel a sort of dread envelop me in sudden realization what kind of people I was dealing with. The slum gangs, the past of aches that were Therese’s. I retched a little bit, drawing the men’s attention again. What seemed to be the head guy and the two thugs had a quick conversation, pointing to me. My hand looked too large. I passed out.
The next thing I knew my arms were stinging with raw pain and I was lying in a cot in a small hut. I looked down at my arms and saw two long cuts on each arm running a foot long: exactly like Therese’s. So am I part of the ‘community’ now? I was still out of it and very faint, and it was only a short time before I could hold the much-needed sleep from entering my eyes.
The next morning I woke up and my arms were stinging again, less tender but still raw-feeling. They continued to smart tantalizingly for a while after...but because I knew Therese had suffered the same I could almost feel glad about it. It’s stupid I should be so corny, I thought. I saw bread on the table beside me and ate with relish. Then the thugs, I never noticed their faces-they were somehow unnoticeable, came in and dragged me off again towards a field in the area where I had seen workers before. I could spot the little mud and steel huts very far in the distance, and the headquarters even farther. It was hotter, but the odor of garbage and rotting wasn’t as strong. I was given a shovel, and threatened with a whip. It’s like they’ve been put back in the past-with these whips and ‘slave masters’. Our own half of the globe on the north didn’t seem to care at all about the harsh methods. I suppose I didn’t care, but of course, now I couldn’t help but care. I noticed others around me working in patient silence. Their faces were dark, but you could tell they were well-acquainted with sun. They had the scars on their arms. Some had gained some strength with the labor, and others I could see knew it too well. I tried to whisper to one, asking what Southern region we were in and a few other other things I could manage to think of. But she didn’t seem to understand me and muttered to her friend. He told me I was in a region close to the north, seeming to know what I would ask, and if I needed any more help to ask him. He must have been the only one that spoke my language. I was somewhat surprised by the kindness and it was heartening. But they both left to work another quadrant of the field, and when the stiff ground met my greatest effort with the shovel rebelliously, I realized I would have to work it out on my own. Fear of being whipped became my companion and inspired continual effort until the ground broke. After the initial suspense of being near the whip, the work became painfully tedious.
The physicality of my situation made me feel different in my psychological approach to the idea of real hardship. I felt weird. There was no privilege, no safety, no wall from the problems I had, there was only harsh work and maltreatment and the sharing of the toil with the others. I found there was no one else to blame but God. Doubtful that he was there. So I guess I had this coming after never being involved in the prayer group and the missionary garbage, I said to him half out loud.
And so I was angry with God, or rather the idea of him, with Therese, and then with myself, and then I was worried about Therese and her parents, and then the heat would re-enact my anger in a rather exhausting cycle.
I took out the box that day, finally having a chance to open it. I wasn’t surprised to see something holy, if it was from Therese, but it was different than her usual gifts: a mirror in the shape of a cross, a little strange but a nice thought I supposed. When I looked in everything looked richer in color somehow, like my grandpa’s fancy sunglasses, but the mirror had a very simple lens. I could see clearly the sweat and marks on my face and my depressed expression-my face looked different. But the surprising thing was my eyes. I was shocked to look into them-almost taken aback. They looked strangely...empty...Oh gosh I’m ridiculous. The heat always makes me dramatic. I forced a laugh and looked at it again. I couldn’t be more indifferent towards a gift. I thought about the other implications: Had Therese known I would be in danger? Is that why she had snuck the box into the vest? I wavered between anger and worry-about her. I was sure she knew that they had mistaken me for her, and she would be coming after me. I wanted her to come but at the same time but I didn’t. Why do they want her though? I wished I could somehow get a message to her.
My thoughts kept me occupied for most of the day. I was never given any water, but the guy who spoke my language helped me find it during our five-minute repast. Never before had it tasted more glorious even though it poured lukewarm down my throat.
Food was very little, and because I wasn’t used to small portions, I couldn’t handle the work later in the afternoon. I lagged behind everybody else no matter how hard I tried. Eventually I was whipped. From a certain perspective it wasn’t that severe, but it was more pain than I had really ever experienced in my life. What was worse though, it set off an ‘emotional break-down’. I started weeping before all the workers. Something that never really happened-or I never allowed to happen. Therese used to say I should ‘let it go’, and that I always had resentment building up-she could almost make me cry when she patted my hand. The people just watched me, probably not sure what to think of me bawling and weeping, I thought. My dad and mom didn’t really know what to do with my tantrums and weeping when I was five, and so I didn’t know either later on. I just knew I was angry, and I turned ‘faceless’, as Therese used to tell me half-joking-but nevertheless the perfect word to describe me when I was angry.
It must have been around seven in the evening when we were let off. I went and sat under the shade of the tree. It smelled something like burnt olives and cinnamon dirt, probably the richest sensation I’d experienced in that whole place, and the cool of the tree felt like water to the melting liquid sensation of the heat. An old woman made me let her pour water down my back. It stung like hell but I was glad of it. I realized she had probably wasted her drinking water on me and I called after her to give her a real thank you but she was quickly gone out of sight-not wishing to be bothered with thanks I supposed. I took the mirror out without thinking and stared at my countenance. A little blood that I hadn’t noticed was on my face from the whipping. I saw some of the marks on my shoulders. As I looked I was reminded of something familiar. Looking at the cross-shape of the mirror, I realized I had been thinking of the station of the cross where Jesus was scourged. When I saw the scratches on my back, I wasn’t sure why, but I felt almost proud of them. But I shut my feelings up-there is no pride in weakness. With the loss of blood I started to feel faint and tired, even with the tree’s shade it was so hot ...
I woke to see an old man smiling down at me and had one of those ‘near heart-attack’ moments, and then regained myself, rubbed my eyes, and got up-or rather he pulled me up. I wondered how long I had been asleep-apparently long enough for someone to notice...I looked at the gentleman inquisitively and faked a smile. I recognized him to be a worker I had seen around. He had seemed to be praying during our breaks and I noticed he often smiled when he worked. He pointed in a certain direction and beckoned with his hand. I was unsure what he wanted but he took my hand anyway and led me from the tree. I didn’t really care that a stranger had taken my hand at that point, and there was something about this man I trusted. We went over a small hill, or rather a dune, and I could hear the sounds of bells. They were coming from a building in the distance, and as we got closer I realized it was a small church, more like a chapel. It seemed to be the only building made of good wood. The man gave me a reassuring smile and went through the plain wooden doors. I stood outside for a little while, hesitant for some reason, and then went in. I could smell a faint scent deep within my memory-the burning, contemplative, earthy but pure smell of incense. I had mostly been frustrated and mocking of the ‘sacramentals’ and ‘rituals’ of my faith, but I realized then that because of it a church was always familiar, even by a distance of great poverty to utter wealth. That gave me a kind of peace. My next thought was how they had gotten the incense down into the South... quite a surprising people they had turned out to be in that region. But when I walked in I saw the typical marks of their poverty ( mine too at the moment I supposed): the altar, although adorned with care, was deteriorating in places, and the glass windows poorly plastered were mostly broken. I felt very much like someone was there-like I was being touched softly, but when I had looked the old man who had led me there was gone into the only other room in the chapel. I found myself turning to the front of the church where the tabernacle was. Although simple it was carefully ornate-I was surprised to see a lot valuables used to decorate it and surround it, even fragrant flowers. There was an undeniable beauty about its dark wood and beaded drapings. I had never been alone before in a chapel, a chapel stripped of almost everything but symmetry, just standing there in silence; but it was a loud silence, rich silence, so that it was more meaningful than a million speeches. In mass they kept the tabernacle off in a small room, and adoration wasn’t my thing, or communion really. But I felt different in the slums, like I also was stripped and weak, so that I was open to shame before what many say is the Christ in physical presence, but yet I was not ashamed. At least I was not ashamed of being ashamed. I found myself stuck where I stood, stuck with the holy that had always frightened me. And yet, probably for the first time since I’d arrived in the slums, my heart beat steadily. Then I heard shuffling behind me and happy whispering: a stream of people came in as though in the instant rush and inevitability of an ocean wave where I stood in the middle. Everybody went to the front and sat on the hard floor, as their were no seats or pews. I followed suit. With the sobriety and yet subtle eagerness of the faces around me I expected mass, but instead the old man came out wearing a simple vestment and carried a rosary. He sat down in front of us and began the rosary. I had never seen more concentration and feeling in the praying of a rosary than I did then. They were praying (I guessed) the sorrowful mysteries, but it was almost as though they were there within the story and chronology: some smiled and cried in in the appropriate places, and others would even go and anoint what seemed to be their injuries at certain parts. It was a little too much for me after a while and I quietly left and found myself almost running back to my tree. There was more faith in this small chapel than in my whole church multiplied many times, and it frightened me somehow. They were not angry at God there in that chapel, but rather blessing the physical signs of their sorrow, as though they was fit to be blessed.
I was asleep in my cot when I heard noises and woke abruptly to the sounds of shouting and the muffled whispering coming closer to my hut. I went out cautiously: everything was hazy, and then I saw a figure in the distance, held roughly by what was almost certainly the thugs that were in charge of me. The figure being tussled back in forth spoke, and I immediately recognized the voice was Therese’s. She’s here? Apparently without back up; where are her parents?, I thought. I wasn’t sure how she was going to save me. What if they do something to her? I started breathing heavily, very confused, and then ducked back into the hut. They were coming closer towards it and I was certain they would leave Therese with me. I thought it was best to pretend to be asleep, so I slumped back down on the cot. I felt a body land on the floor below me, then the men walked away. I got up and turned, and there was Therese looking up at me with tears in her eyes. I rushed to her and put my arms around her.
“How did you get here?”
“I drove.” She smiled.
“You drove, but why?”
Therese looked at me as though the answer was obvious.
“But I’m the one who ran off in the forest and made everything worse. You should have gone to my parents and let them deal with it instead of coming straight out for me!”
“Perhaps Miel, but you know first of all your parents wouldn’t believe or trust me, and I couldn’t leave you on your own when it was my fault they had even taken you in the first place: You probably know by now they mistook you for me.
...I feel truly sorry to have put you in danger. How have you held up?”
“I’m fine”, I lied angrily, “ but what I would really like to know is what’s going on? Why do they want you back here, and why were the thugs after your parents when they came to meet you? I thought the gangs allowed people to cross the borders? And the gang-leader here seems clearly to be from the North! As usual, I have no idea what’s going on.”
It’s alright Miel, there is a lot I have to tell you, a lot that I’ve kept from you over the years... this would be the time -we don’t really have that much to lose at this point.” She sighed.
I waited patiently, not sure what to expect.
She hesitated, gulped and then spoke:
“First, I came to the North illegally, despite what you’re parents have said and I told you before (she gulped again and trembled a little as she continued to speak), they took the first chance they got, my parents crossing to me, to bring me back. They’re very strict about who leaves and who doesn’t and they don’t forget even after many years. Luckily, headquarters never found about my parents’ ‘illegal’ act until about a month ago. My parents had to evacuate the slums and sent a message to me-that’s why I had to give them money for a house. The gangs followed them to our meeting place yesterday, to take me back and put my parents back into working which they would now have the power to do. And my parents had just been let off for good (She sighed again). We thought the gangs were at least half a day away, but it ends up they had tricked us and sent another group ahead of time.”
“But I thought a family from the South was allowed to send a child away? Why would your immigration be illegal?”, I said resentfully.
Therese could, of course, tell I was angry, “Listen Miel, I couldn’t be more ashamed about lying to you about coming to the North illegally, I’m so sorry...and if you want to know the answer to those questions, you’ll have to be ready for something I thought I wouldn’t have to tell you for a while still.”
There was more she had kept from me! I had no idea what to expect, but I told her to tell me and that I was ready...I wasn’t.
She breathed in, and said very simply,
“You see, Miel, you were adopted, too.”
She let it sink in. Ok, so, I was adopted. That was a little shocking to hear but compared to all the other stuff that had happened, I wasn’t as affected by the news as I normally would have been. I was a little angry, another example of me being kept in the dark, but perhaps my parents thought I would be more secure about myself if they kept that information from me. But how would Therese know? Therese studied my face, and then continued with something that really shocked me:
“There’s more: you came from here, from the slums.”
Silence. I didn’t believe her.
“And wait, not just that...um…I...am…actually...your sister.”
I expected her to laugh, or say “gotcha”, but she just stared at the ground.
“Excuse me? You...what? You mean, I’m from here-from this place. And that weird couple, your...parents...that’s my mom and dad! You have got to be kidding, you mean I might have lived here, with you, maybe all my life? You can’t be serious!”
Therese finally mustered up the courage to face me.
“You were lucky.”
Now I was angry.
“You should have told me!!! Why, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I promised your parents, your adoptive parents, and I promised my mom and dad, your real mom and dad. I thought it was better for you not to know anyway, it would make life easier for you.”
“But why me? Why was I adopted, why not you?”
“Well...you see children are permitted to be sent away to the North to be adopted-but this is rare; in fact it only occurs in a period where there are too many workers or people in a certain region for the size of the region’s resources. You were born in such a period. Headquarters dictated that one child from each family could be sent off to be adopted. I was only seven at the time, young enough to be sent off, but I refused to go.”
“Why?”
“Because you would live a life free from all of it. I had already seen the horrors. If I could give you a chance to be completely free, it was worth it.”
“But you were only seven?”
She only nodded.
“And so your current parents adopted you, since you were pretty cheap. They stuck with the name ‘Miel’, I guessed they liked it. I, on the other hand, worked in the fields for four years. Then my parents hit hard when my dad got sick, and they couldn’t provide for me so they sent me off illegally, at least illegally in headquarters’ terms. But your dad has always been in danger from the headquarters gangs because of my illegal adoption. So they resent my a little bit.”, she said ironically.
“Wow.” So my adoptive parents had known that my real parents were still alive. I wasn’t sure what to think of it, I just felt angry. Then something else crossed my mind I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of.
“But wait, where are your parents, my real parents I mean?” It felt strange to actually admit.
“Oh yes, I forgot to tell you...they’re safe back in the North. I wouldn’t let them come with me. I took their van so headquarters would follow me, and they got away in my car. They should be at Grandma Mary’s by now”
Therese was too much for me to handle sometimes.
“I am sorry for all of this.” She said like she had been waiting to say it forever.
I couldn’t find the words to respond to her, so I remained silent in thought.
I couldn’t fathom it all. I used to think myself so blessed, so lucky my family was from the North, but without a small stroke of chance, or perhaps it wasn’t chance, I might have lived here in the slums. So, Therese was my sister, I should have guessed. I suppose everyone was trying to keep me safe, but I wish I had known she was my sister all these years; everyone had lived a lie for sixteen years. Knowing Therese was my sister made me feel a little better, but I was too confused, too uncertain to take everything in. I imagined how much a jerk I must have been to her, how selfish and just plain depressing I must have been. I just burst out:
“What do you see in me, Therese?”
Therese turned towards me in surprise. She looked at me, and said:
“I see...humility.”
It was quiet for a little bit, except for the happy buzzing of the crickets. Then Therese added:
“...and, you’re a bit morose…”
I laughed a little. She was right.
Then I pulled out the box. Therese smiled.
“I suppose you are wondering what that is.”
“A little.”
“Well it’s always belonged to you: a gift from mom and dad when you were born. We couldn’t send it with you, so I’ve kept it all these years. I put it in the bullet-proof vest so you could have it if you were in a dangerous situation and something happened to you.”
A gift from my parents, my ‘real parents’. A physical sign, a gift from them that I had in my pocket, almost made the whole thing too surreal. I tried to regain my sanity and said:
“I guess that makes sense, but it’s not exactly a serious gift...what is the point of a mirror, much less in the shape of a cross?”
Therese took it out my hand and held it up so I could see both of us. My eyes looked like they were holding back tears and looked strange from the effect, my face was tense, and there seemed to be more marks. Therese looked like me, but she was calm and her tears were not held back. I saw the scars on our arms we both wore. Somehow seeing us together through the mirror was just a little different, and made it the scene more real instead of less so. Therese traced the cross-shape with her fingers.
“You see Miel, whenever there is something you are suffering, you can look through the mirror at the imperfections of yourself, at the sorrow on your face, if you let it be present there, and you can be reminded to unite it to the face of the cross. I think Miel, if we do not unite our sorrows with that which Christ suffered, unknowingly or knowingly, then our suffering has no meaning and we try to reject it and escape it-which we can never do. We must die with him in the sacrifice of the mass and live with him in communion, and with all the sacraments.”
I looked at the mirror, and found myself weeping on Therese’ shoulder.
* * *
I woke up from a deep sleep with Therese snoring beside me, happy to have her there. The air was cool and I could see the light slowly growing and illuminating the hut. Probably near sunrise. I was surprised I had been able to fall asleep without trying to make some sort of plan, perhaps I had finally reconciled myself with being there… though before it had seemed impossible to do.
I didn’t know what to expect that day. What would happen to Therese, to me?
I felt a realization of regret about my parents. It felt so wrong to have thought they were dead, to not have known the parents who had sacrificed much for me.
Before I could drift off again, I saw dim shadows in the light. I thought I could hear my adoptive parents’ voices... my senses came into full focus and I was sure it was them. My heart leaped: they would get us out of here! Still, how were they safe here? Four figures were coming to us, and I recognized my adoptive mom and dad’s faces, and the two thugs. The thugs grabbed a hold of me, and shoved me towards my adoptive mom and dad. They wrapped their arms around me, and then mom squeezed my hand. Dad handed over the biggest chunk of cash I had ever seen. So that’s how they managed. The thugs left, and then came back with two small figures: they were my real parents. Therese had come out and stood by a tree nervously and yet confidently. They pushed our real parents towards the tree, and they fell next to Therese against the charred trunk. We were all like ghosts hovering in the shadows of night, with teeth chattering in the cold. I tried to go towards my real parents, but my adoptive parents held me back, and the thugs wouldn’t let me go through. Then my adoptive parents walked away, and tried to pull me with them, but I resisted:
“What in the world are you doing? We need to get Therese and my real parents out of here!”
They just looked at me in shock. I suppose they thought I would never find out, it would be a clean escape for them.
Mom said:
“We can’t...you must understand. Your dad would be in trouble with the government, could lose his job if we involve ourselves with the gangs anymore than we already have. Your dad as a representative of the North cannot affiliate himself with the South, he must tread carefully. We can’t take back Therese’ parents-their criminals, and now that the gangs know about Therese’ illegal adoption, she can’t return either.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re a government official Dad, can’t you do something?”
“The government doesn’t deal with the South, our own economy would be in danger if we tried to aid them and allowed people to immigrate.” He said in hushed tones.
“So you’ll leave Therese and my real parents here to whatever punishments they’re subject to, because our economy can’t handle it, and because you may lose your job?! None of this makes sense!”
“We’ve allowed Therese to be with us up until this time, that’s the least we can do.
“Sure, you have but you’ve been assholes towards her! I’m ashamed of you, of me for not speaking up for her. She deserved our utmost pity despite the slight danger she brought upon us, and you should repay it now. We should find joy to repay it. What else can we give of any meaning at all?”
They were silent.
“Well, what happened to the girl who thought it was all too depressing?”
“It ends up she’s part of that depression.”
They just stared at me.
“Our job is to keep you safe.”
I started to stamp frantically on the ground and punched the air fiercely. Everybody just stared as my anger built.
“What happened to “Our sisters and brothers in Christ.”? Their not only human beings, but my real family. Is this how the whole world thinks? No wonder, no wonder. I just, I want to know there is one person who would give everything, everything to save even the worst of people, much less the best? Come on? Who? Who?”
Therese was the only one who spoke:
“Jesus.”
When she said it I felt like fire slowing building within me and the sparks were in my throat. Then little droplets of sweat came down in soft trickles. I had never really felt animated until that point: it was the strongest hope, not because I would be in comfort, but through suffering, somehow, I would be happy. It was impossible to imagine, but it was the truth of the world, of my slums here, of my ‘slums’ I knew were inside me. I realized that I should have been looking through the cross at my scars and sufferings. Perhaps I’ve found no meaning in anything, especially suffering. How had I not seen that? Was that how these people here in the slums had found joy? They had prayed the Rosary with the utmost faith because they had let themselves live it with Christ. They had let their own body become Christ’s, because he could find meaning for them. A greater meaning. Yes blessed are those who mourn, for Christ will change mourning into celebration, especially only if we allow ourselves to mourn with him by seeing him in the most wretched of people. Only then can we heal the wretched within ourselves.
I walked in out of church but never took it with me. Even in the smallest pain I was alone and there was no meaning, and perhaps that was the greatest suffering of all.
