My Grandpa Told Me A Story

Sitting on a porch one night, my grandpa told me a story. A story that came with blood, sweat, and tears. I looked at him thinking about what kind of story. I imagined a story filled with myths and fables. Excited, I rushed him to tell me the story. The story goes something like this.

There was a boy who worked as a farmer. He lived in a peaceful village. One morning, he went on his way to his family’s farm. On his way, he heard what sounded like a bomb. In curiosity, he rushed to where the sound came from. There he saw people in uniforms holding rifles. There was shouting, rifles pointing at people on the ground, and blood bleeding out from the bodies laying. The boy ran as fast as he could to his home without ever looking back. When he got home, he told his parents what had happened. Immediately his parents shouted to the neighbors. Less than minutes, a crowd gathered with rifles. The boy was given a rifle without knowledge of what was happening.

Among the crowd, the boy was lost but he was told to be ready. He didn’t understand but he followed the chanting of the crowd. Chanting of what the people want and what the people demand. In a short period, the same people he saw earlier in uniforms with rifles opened fire. The boy saw bullets flying in the air. He saw bullets going through bodies. Soon he heard a man’s voice yelling at the crowd to fall back. When the boy saw the people running, he followed while drenched in sweat. When the boy came home there was only a burning house, empty rooms, and landmines everywhere. He had his rifle and the crowd of men that he had followed. Maybe his only family for now.

Years have passed and he was still holding his rifle. He had to open fire so many times he lost count. By now he understood what was happening. He understood that there was turmoil, unjust, and war. A war against the system of feudalism. Against a country that treated them with the control of military power. They constantly fought what seemed like unending tears. Standing in his uniform, the boy saw the red, white, and blue flag waving in the distance. A symbol that reminded him of who he is and what unites his people. He saw his mates who stood with him on the front line, in the jungle, and what he believes in. He believes that his people will stay united and return to their homeland.

After my grandpa told the story, he stood up and took down a rifle from the wall. He passed it to me. When I felt the rifle, there were traces of blood, sweat, and tears. Instantly, I remembered the boy from the story my grandpa told. I looked at him and got a glimpse of why my story started in the refugee camp.

By Tay M.