A Fight for Our Life

March 30, 2009
By Gina B. BRONZE, Raleigh, North Carolina
Gina B. BRONZE, Raleigh, North Carolina
4 articles 0 photos 1 comment

I was born into the world of submission. My father was a communist soldier but we lived in poverty. My mother suffered from the beginning stages of rheumatism and between my friends and neighbors, I was just a peasant.

Everyday when I returned from school, my father made me read a vast amount of books. He claimed it would enlighten me for the future. I was hard and tough which my mother thought was terrible. The women of our little town, Soyoko, were supposed to be soft and gentle and I, at seventeen, am strong as a bull. My family lived in clandestine wealth but no one knew. No one can know.

One day when I came home from school, I found blood stained on the walls. Our windows were broken and the curtains were torn. I knew the supreme entourage had been there because I could smell the scents of their freshly lit pipes. I went in my father’s room and found that they had confiscated his papers and most of his books on his hidden bookshelf, behind his clothes, in his closet. I followed a trail of blood to the bathroom and saw my father’s body in the tub. His clothes were stained and the smell of the room was horrific. His blood embraced the walls and the floor. I turned to the mirror and my green eyes reflected the bloody message. It was the slogan of the murderers, the supreme entourage.

Down with the lies,
Full of deceit.
Their time has come.
Now we will speak.

I suddenly heard a body move around in my room. When I went in there, everything was untouched. My window was not broken and the pictures of my favorite revolutionaries remained on the walls. The picture of my family on my nightstand was there and my sheets were undamaged but I heard movement in my closet. I found my bat behind my bed and opened my closet, only to find my mother weeping. She told me how my father was a hero and how he sacrificed himself to save her and me.

I pulled my long red hair into a ponytail and helped my mother from the ground. I found my duffel bag under my bed and quickly packed our clothes. I went to the kitchen and grabbed five cans of food. I knew if the entourage visited once, they would visit again. At that point, I knew why my father made me read the books because he was right. I believed he knew what would happen to him. The revolution had arrived and he knew that he, along with the other soldiers would die, one by one. I refused to be condemned to a bleak future. I would not be forced to give up on faith and hope. My father believed in me and I would fight for the life of my mother and me no matter how hard the triumph.

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