Who cares….?
There were quite a few and they made me nervous. The posters were hung in public buildings with pictures of westerners and the question…..
“ Have you seen this face ? ” and as they added “Missing Since” dates , and “Last Seen” locations below the pictures, I hoped I never did .
It was May 1987, and the Holy Month of Ramadan…and fucken hot in Pakistan. In the city of Peshawar I had personally heard the rocket attack and two other explosions in the city since the night before. Rumors that Russian Migs had crossed into Pakistan from Afghanistan to attack a village not far away were rife. And on that very ugly day in May I witnessed up close the occurrence of death of numerous innocent people. Their bus was bombed in front of the busy bus terminal on Grand Trunk Road, victims of pro Soviet Afghans. I felt the concussion…. and then seven dead and forty wounded, some terribly……..
I took their picture and have since endured regret at every thought of it.. Some of the dead were later carried away by their families, …. and some were never identified.
Close to a million people lived in cities of tents and makeshift shelters in Pakistan at that time. All of them refugees from the war across the neighboring Afghan border. Amputees were everywhere and children missing hands or fingers were to be commonly seen ….victims of the brightly colored child magnet “whirley gig” bombs the Russians dropped from helicopters. Designed to maim , not kill, they did their job well. And I had opportunity to shake the deformed hand of an intense young man who sold me a small carpet. Being a past victim of this incredible cruelty it was the only hand he had left.
I believe I made him laugh……and I believe what he laughed at was the weakness displayed in the eyes of a westerner who had a harder time witnessing his life than he had of actually living it.
I had convinced myself I had gone there for the adventure, and the excitement, the adrenaline…but in reality I went for nothing more than a story to tell to people who aren‘t really interested…..like you. I had gone to witness the misery of others for nothing more than just that….a story to tell in order to entertain and sound adventurous. My presence there offered not one positive thing that I can think of …… then, or now .
And that’s the story….and I’ve finally told it…and I hope I feel better now.
Was it strength….or weakness ?
Was it strength… or weakness ?
I don‘t know and it doesn‘t matter……the results were the same. Though 35 or so years have passed one of my life’s most difficult moments comes back occasionally to be relived. It comes unexpectedly and always as intensely as that original moment all those years ago.
It came today triggered by God knows what.
I was a construction laborer then and one day as the noon time temps busted a 100 degrees the boss said “Lets wrap it up”. Joyfully I tossed my filthy body in the pickup and headed out. The plan for my unexpected spare time was to head over to Mom and Dads to swap out some tires I had in their garage . As I arrived in the drive I could hear the screaming… it was my Mother and it was evident she wasn’t screaming in fun from the backyard pool …this was real terror.
I found her and my brother David attempting to hold my youngest brother up out of the water of the above ground pool unable to get him up the ladder . He had dove in and cracked his head on the bottom and it was some time before it was noticed he was unconscious on the pools bottom.
I dragged with all my might and pulled him off the the ladder where he thudded to the ground and I knew…..looking at the absolutely black lips, the lifelessness and lack of breathing….. I just knew he was dead. My brother Steven was dead and I just couldn’t face my Mothers horror, I couldn‘t look at her…..I found it easier to kneel down and give mouth to mouth to my dead brother than to dare look up and make eye contact with her. And I gave him mouth to mouth to the verge of blacking out, terrified of the moment I would have to look up.
My brother David had called for an ambulance and as they arrived Steven opened his eyes wildly and puked water in my face and gasped for air on his own. I got in the ambulance and went with them to the hospital and as they carted him into the emergency room I stood there in the waiting room, shirtless and dirty until my Mother arrived. We made eye contact then, and I started bawling like a baby knowing he would be allright.
A news reporter happened to hear of the story and when Steven was lucid he asked him….
“What’s your brothers name?” to which Steven answered….
“David Berthiaume”…….and that’s how they spelled it in the Manchester Union Leader the very next day. They say everyone gets his fifteen minutes of fame and wouldn’t you just know it…..I have mine under someone else’s name.
It’s funny how some brief moments can last a whole lifetime . But the end of this story has cause for celebration and so I think I’ll toast my brothers life with a beer or two….. and don’t think this story as sad as it sounds for it has many times over all these years provided me an excuse to toast my brothers life, and that’s a happy thing.
I think I’ll make them the big can Fosters…… 25.4 fl ozs per can……
