In our Creative Energy Series we usually feature artist that use paint, a pencil, or a camera to channel their creativity and reflect on the world that surrounds us. Today, I have something a bit different, an artist that paints a picture with words instead of a brush. Brittany McAdams contacted me and expressed her love of writing fiction. She has a story to share with us. Please enjoy, "Six Silent Prayers".
Six Silent Prayers
By Brittany McAdams
I walked through the rundown streets of the broken village. The devastation of the town tore at my heart. I knew at that moment that not only would I have to report on the situation of this country but help the people as much as I could. As I walked, I said a silent prayer asking my beloved God to help me serve His children.
Using the camera that was strapped around my neck, I began taking pictures of the poverty I saw: a starving baby clinging to its mother, a woman hanging what little clothes her family had on a clothesline, a widower leaving his crying children to go to work to put food in their stomachs. Ripped shirts and pants were all the people had to cover themselves from the hot Sun; most had no shoes. I looked down at my expensive hiking boots and sturdy jeans. I had so much compared to these people.
So I began my personal mission of service and my real job of reporting. Every night I interviewed a new family then gave them what they needed. I learned their stories. I learned their needs. I learned their wants. I learned to love them. After interviewing them, I would go to my small rundown hut with barely a roof, loaned to me by the people I was working for, and type the stories into my laptop, eventually putting them all together to show the world what was really happening behind the wall the dictators of that country had put up.
One of the families I interviewed especially stood out to me. The mother was only twenty four but she already had six children, the oldest being five; the youngest were twins six months of age. She had a amiable face with smile wrinkles all around her eyes. Her smile was warm and welcoming. It made you feel loved. She was gorgeous with her dark skin and curly hair. She was a good wife and mother. She kept the small, dirt-floor hut as clean and tidy as possible. She loved her children and worked very hard to make them happy and give them a little fun. The father was a quiet, yet opinionated man who had plenty to say about the state of his country once he started to open up a bit more to me. He was thirty years old. He also loved his family and labored in the mines 12 miles away to keep food in their stomachs and a roof over their heads. He always seemed to be covered in soot that never seemed to wipe off. He was careful with his smiles, only sparing them for his wife and children.
The husband and wife shared their story with me. "It all started when I was a boy," the father said. "I was just ten years old when they came to power." The mother nodded her head, gripping her husband’s hand. "I was only four," she said "but I remember feeling a change come about. Ma and Pa didn't smile as much, and my oldest brother grew refined unlike the crazy boy he used to be."
"They invaded our country like they had a right to it, but they didn't and they still don't," he informed me. "They said they would pull us up and help us, but since their reign over us they've done nothing except take our money, and force us to make more, for them." Every time he said "they" or "them", he said it like it was poison in his mouth. I quickly took a note of that. "My family used to have good money. Not too much nor too little. We lived comfortably. But that changed when they began to tax us. The taxes were so huge we couldn't afford to pay them. They sent my father to prison, and eventually he died there from the brutal torture. My mother found herself widowed, jobless and with three young children, she couldn't find a job that would allow her to take care of us. We were sent to the street. I, being the oldest, took on responsibility as the father, and got whatever job I could to take care of my family." The husband paused for a very long time. I could see the red hot anger burning in his eyes. He stood abruptly and left the room mumbling something about how that was all he would say. My heart ached for the quiet man and as I left the hut that night, I said a silent prayer for him and his family.
As I went along, I found myself becoming one of them. These were my people. I was already fluent in their language before I came, and as I learned more of their culture it became easier to believe I had lived here all my life. I loved their culture. I loved their natural mannerisms: burping was not only appropriate but expected after a meal, they called each other “brother” and “sister”. Each person had a remarkable amount of respect for the other. I loved their darkened skin, and as I spent more time with them in the Sun, my skin began to darken a bit to be more like theirs. Serving the people gave me a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in years.
At the end of every month, the newspaper I was writing for asked if I was ready to come home to New York yet, but every month I asked for one more month. It went on for a 12 months before they told me I must leave or they wouldn’t give me money for my housing, food, or a way home anymore. It was time to leave.
As much as I didn’t want to go, I knew I had to. I had no means to live on my own and my family was insistent on me coming home. The farewells from the villagers had been hard and emotional, but I made it through with a silent prayer for the strength to keep moving. I walked up to the small dock where a boat was waiting to take me across a sea, where I would get onto the plane that would take me home.
As I reached the boat I had assumed was the one I would be boarding, an old man told me I wasn't allowed on. I tried my very hardest to explain to the man that we had arranged for me to go on his boat. He told me that the government had passed a new law saying no passengers were allowed on any boat without a signed document from the government official that specialized in the travel of the citizens. So that's where I went, but no matter how much I argued, they wouldn't give me the paperwork I needed. There was no way home.
So I went about living my life. I got a job washing dishes in the neighboring village, nearly 24 miles from where I lived. A kind woman, a widow with 12 children under the age of fifteen, let me live with her and use her horse to get to and from work until I earned enough to rent my old hut that the newspaper firm had loaned me.
I still added to my writing as much as I could. In the first 12 months, I had written over a 120 pages and every few days I added one more. I believed with all my heart that these people's stories deserved to be heard more than any celebrity or politician. That's why I wrote; for this people. My people. When I would read through my work, I would say a silent prayer that somehow the rest of the world would see it and do something about it.
Eventually, after a year, I earned enough to actually buy the house I had previously lived in. Because the newspaper firm had owned it, they somehow installed Internet connection in the house. I finally had communication with my family again. They were all terribly worried about me being stuck in a third world country, but I always reassured them that this is where I was meant to be.
* * * Six Years Later * * *
“Any objections?” the officer asked, though we all knew he would arrest anyone who did.
The crowd was absolutely silent. Anger raged through me. How can they do this to us? To me? How can they take away our rights like this?! I had to do something. I couldn’t sit back and let them tell me what to do.
My heart thudded in my ears. I looked around to see the same dumbfounded stare on every face. If no one would stand, I would. First I said a silent prayer asking for the courage I needed. Then, with nothing to lose, I stood, my eyes trained on the officer. I watched as his sly grin turned into a deep frown. “I object officer!” I yelled up to him.
Shaking his head he said, “You’re a woman with no means. You have no right to object.” he waved the other officers who started to come towards me away, and turned to walk off the stage. So, now I’m not good enough to arrest? I thought. Well, let’s show them.
I squeezed past the people on my row, and briskly walked up the aisle to the stage, surprised no one arrested me before I got there. I grabbed the microphone, and put it to my mouth. “This is exactly what I object to!” I almost jumped when I heard my words being broadcast over the whole audience. “Not only the new law, but all the ones already set! Just because I am a woman, I am stupid and have no voice! But I am not stupid! With the help of my father, I learned to read and write!” I smiled at the audience's collective gasps. Apparently, most had forgot I was raised in America where I was free to learn.
I was surprised that the officers hadn’t dragged me off yet, but I knew they were probably waiting to see what other laws I would admit to breaking, but I didn’t care. I plunged ahead. “And now, I am smart enough to know that these men shouldn’t be ruling our nation! They claim to bring us up, but they are pulling us down! If we just--”
An officer grabbed me, his hand over my mouth. I struggled, hoping I could wiggle out of his grasp. I bit the guy’s hand, which made him pull back, but I was still constrained. “Don’t let them do this to us!” I yelled, hoping my voice would carry.
Suddenly there was a gag around my mouth, and they shoved me to my knees. I knew something bad was about to happen. The fact that they weren’t dragging me off stage told me as much. And I was right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the officer I spoke out against come towards me, a stick in hand.
I looked out to the audience with pleading eyes, hoping that someone else would have the courage to stand, or at least save me, but no one did. They all looked up at me with a organized stare. My heart sank.
But then, what could I really expect? I brought this upon myself. I was the one who stood, who broke at least a dozen laws just by stepping on stage. I made that decision. I wasn’t even one of them, though that is how I often considered myself. I couldn’t expect others to make that sacrifice for me. I was an outsider. I was a nobody.
A nobody who would die today because of her own stupid determination.
The sound of approaching boots filled my ears, matching the beating of my rapid heart. I looked to the heavens and said a final silent prayer to the outlawed God I so desperately believed in.
