Jemima Holborow's Journal of Uno Ramirez

Day 1:

2009-03-11T23:05:00.000-07:00

As I sit with my back against the rough trunk of the palm tree, my blanket tucked tightly around me, the events of the day flicker vibrantly through my mind. Adrenaline is still pumping through my blood after the loyalists attack making my head pound with new found energy. Escape is no longer a prospect in my mind. The camp is just like the stronghold we had been told about in the village stories, ominous, dark, a living hell on earth. I scan my surroundings taking in the swaying palm trees and the rigid tan tents letting my eyes rest on the crates of machinery lined up to my left. These guns are our only companion through this journey. How could I have come in one day from a mere peasant loading bananas, to provide for my family, to a revolutionary solider fighting in the war for freedom? The jungle once my home, a hiding place in games, a source of money in tough times now a place of forced training for something I didn’t want to ever become. I have learnt today that to survive I can’t rely on my fellow soldiers, it is everyman for himself. As I listen to the soft snoring of the men I know they will inflict as much fear and hatred into my heart, as those who crouch ready to attack outside the gates. This war leaves no one untouched. The missing presence of the ache in my stomach makes me uneasy it is the first time that the gripping pain of hunger is absent. The food is a shining light in this darkness but I know that every taco shell and supplement of bean was taken from a village just like mine. A feeling of hatred and intense injustice roars in the pit of my stomach like an ever glowing fire.

Picture from:http://globalanni.files.wordpress.com/2007/05/050211044000.jpg

Poem:

2009-03-11T22:59:00.000-07:00

The warm breeze swirls around my head

The mosquitoes dance lightly to its beat

It is a summer’s day, I should be at work

But I am here in the midst of a battle of dignity

My purpose unknown, other than death

I am nothing but a tool of war

Whose nation relies on my finger

To pull the cold, silver trigger

When the time comes

To bring down as many men

Whose lives have been marked with war

Before they do the same to me

If I die, I will be like every other soldier

Who lies slain on the battle field.

Picture from: http://www.old-picture.com/civil-war

/pictures/Battlefield-Gettysburg-Dead.jpg

Day 2:

2009-03-11T22:57:00.000-07:00

As I lie watching the sun rise over the glistening palm trees, I wonder, what is the point of this war? Will it ever end? Is it just like the other 42 wars that have left this country in ruins? Not only do we have a volcano for a mother, a jaguar for a father but also a civil war for a brother. War has ruined my family and stolen my childhood. Why have we let it go on? The captain had no answer to my question; he himself fights to survive, not for the cause. The cause has long been forgotten; we are fighting the loyalists, but why, aren’t we all men? Does the logo of war really separate us that much? Today’s burial opened up an ocean of grief inside me; what had the dead men achieved in their short lives. Does Juan really believe in the war? How can his life’s ambition be to become the perfect solider? Why did he drop out of school to come here, to fight, and to give up any possibility of a better life in exchange for death? Even if this war is ever won, I’m sure that there will be another. The ruling class would become selfish, the lowly peasants would rise up again, and the vicious cycle would go on.

Picture from: http://geology.com/news/images/tungurahua-volcano.jpg

Day 5:

2009-03-11T22:49:00.000-07:00

As I pray quietly by the mounds of dirt, an inadequate memorial to the villagers’ stolen lives, I silently hope that one day the Revolutionaries will make a difference. These men and women had been slaughtered liked animals and left to rot in the sun. The loyalist flag, now flying loosely in the breeze, had been placed with a sense of triumph over the dead bodies. This act of inhumanity lit a fire of rage inside me. Was this their victory another death, another life stolen? Do they not see that, just like the other forty two wars, this one is just as unwinnable? History has repeated itself enough why won’t we learn. As I hear the slight murmur from the girl sleeping in the hut, a smirk crosses my face; the bastards hadn’t got them all. I knew that if I was to see the men who had pulled the trigger so ruthlessly on this defenceless village, I would do the same to them. Something new had been opened inside me; an intense hatred like no other for the loyalists. The baby in my arms shifts slightly, his serene face softening my heart. I bring him closer to my chest and rock him lightly. My mind drifts back to my own village, what has happened to it? How is my family? Is my sister just like the girl inside, changed forever? Would my village one day be recaptured by the jungle just like this one would soon be?

Pciture from: http://urbanreformation.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/man-praying-on-one-knee.jpg

Day 6:

2009-03-11T22:35:00.000-07:00

As I lie on my coarse blanket listening to the sounds of night echo in the trees, I realize that this war is not financed by the big army generals or the government, but by the poor peasants, who have little to give. Daily they struggle to stay alive, the burden on them already immense. Their few resources are stolen from them time and time again, forcing them to work even harder to survive. They pay with an arm and a leg for this war, not only with their few rations but with the lives of their sons and husbands. Those taken as soldiers pay the ultimate price; their life, crushed dreams and the loss of their loved ones. The peasants are taught to hate, steal, fight with barbaric tactics and to kill. Every soldier, dead or alive, is useful to this revolution; they are never free. Loyalists and revolutionaries treat their dead enemy with the same indignity; stripping them of their possessions to sell them for more guns. The loyalists and revolutionary’s alike act with little humanity and are, in reality, low in the pecking order but they both outrank Choya in honour. Choya is nothing but a double timing thief who uses the death and corruption of war to earn money. Rage erupted inside me at the knowledge that he was working for both sides.

Picture from: http://www.smartcreditsmartmoney.com/money.jpg

Day 7:

2009-03-11T22:28:00.000-07:00

I can hear the soft hum of the jungle as I sway gently in my hammock. The time has come; we are no longer in the safety of the stronghold but out in the open, preparing for battle. There is no buzz, but a sense of deep dread. Today, for the first time, I had managed to face my fear and pull the trigger, but there had been no face only a dark silhouette. Would I be able to do it again in the light when eyes, wrinkled with a story, with family, searched mine? I had just learnt to handle a rifle without dropping it. Am I really expected to go to war? I push these thoughts to the back of my mind. I am part of the patrol now. I have to. It is now out of my control. Survival is my first priority. God has given me little help so far. I am on my own. Tomorrow we will cross the river and I may live or die. Either way, the world will go on. As I doze off to sleep, the image of the man face down in the river haunts my dreams.

Picturefrom:http:www.Rwandachild-soldierL0EmhMh51RQ/s400/Child+soldier+Uganda.jpg3.bp.blogspot.com/_L65GKAbA9oc/R_HlQ6a0D_I/AAAAAAAAATg/