Squonk

In the jungle, silence is full of everything familiar. The high-pitched squeaks of rats, the mating songs of parrots and frogs, the deep grunts of okapi and silver-back gorillas, the low cries of wildcats, the shrill shrieks of peacocks, the soft vibrations caused by the traipsing of water buffalo and treks of river hogs; each sound makes up the ever-present music of the rainforest.

The dying sun fades alone, for the thick, deep canopy shields the children of the forest from the change into night. Pure gold light filters down through each level of the tree crowns above, shedding an eerie gold light in every corner of the clearing. The change is hardly noticed by the small people who sit at the forest floor, surrounded by half-dome huts of saplings and mongongo leaves. They are enraptured by a story one of the women is telling, and at points they burst into raucous laughter and at times have to hold each other up. And still the citric light illuminates the monstrous trees and leads the eye to guess what lies between the rays of light. Gradually the light disappears and darkness sets in. But a fire is already glowing at the center of the circle. The omnipresence of eyes peering through the trees is so familiar to be unworthy of attention. Duikers dive into bushes to hide from the traveling red river hogs, and fruit bats fly overhead, pollinating the forest.

Breaking the humid cloud that surrounds the village, the wind passes the sweating brows of the men in the Mayi-Mayi militia, who standing just outside the clearing. They are yet unseen by the people within the circle of huts, the people of a pygmy tribe called the Mbuti. They are small, around four and one half feet tall, speak in a chattering foreign tongue, wear little clothing, and use handmade tools. The women are naked to the hip, and one carries a small infant wrapped in a bark cloth. The children jostle each other as they listen to the story. Relatively peaceful, these hunters and gatherers live in the most mysterious of worlds; the dark center of the Ituri Rainforest in the Congo. Amid an increasingly technological and consolidating world, the Mbuti have kept their unique traditional culture alive for multiple generations, though they encounter many hardships regarding the destruction of their jungle home and external pressure to abandon their way of life. These Mbuti have been targeted by the Mayi-Mayi Congolese militia for extermination.

A burly soldier moves to the forefront of the awaiting ambush, and lifts a hard-won revolver to eye-level. He shoots once, killing one of the Mbuti men, and the camp comes to life. The soldiers emerge from behind the maze of vines and trees to meet the few hunters who run forward to fend off the attack. The strong ones are quickly cut down with a variety of weapons and the women and children who do not fight against their attackers fall from the barrage of bullets from a machine gun. Enormous emergent trees surround the clearing, standing as silent witnesses to the blood bath at their feet.

Dead bodies litter the forest floor, some slumped over others, each fallen in an unnatural position. Around the fire, which still sits burning amongst all the chaos, lie half a dozen bodies of gunned down women. They lie in a sea of blood, the crimson liquid surreal beneath the light of the fire. Along their bodies are random bullet-holes, spotting their dark skin with black holes that will never have a chance to heal. Nearly all of the bodies lie on their backs, eyes staring coldly into the canopy a hundred feet above.

The Mayi-Mayi stand back, weapons in hand, as the last Mbuti falls; a tough young woman who had been fighting one of the soldiers inside a hut. She lies half in and half out of the hut; a drab bark cloth poses the door directly over her stomach, where it is clear she is very pregnant. In the center of her chest blood has begun to spread from a bullet wound, but now that she is dead, it has stopped.

The chief general of the Mayi-Mayi turns to the light-skinned official, a broad, victorious smile enhancing the sharpness of his features. He wears formidable dreadlocks as he would a crown or cape, and in his moment of splendor looks far wilder than the dead, painted Pygmies at his feet.

"Are you surprised with our efficiency?" the general asks the official, who stands a distance away from the soldiers. He wears a disgusted expression as he shifts a dead Mbuti onto its stomach. With his boot, he presses on the shoulder, and the dark body sinks further into the mud of the former water pool. Cocking his head to the side, he turns to look at the general.

"Though I am glad to see them dead—the stubborn beasts—I find your method of disposal lacking."

The general remains silent, familiar with the official's love of his own voice.

"We need total extermination. You are here to destroy these people, general."

Just as the general opens his mouth to argue, a shriek in an unfamiliar tongue reaches his ears from a nearby hut. A small Mbuti child emerges, face streaked with tears and large eyes round with fear and rage. Little legs and arms flailing, the child charges towards the general, and brandishes an already bloody machete. The steps falter, and the general reacts quickly, pulling a spear out of the ground by his side and pointing it towards the less than dangerous enemy. The child stumbles on the last pace, and falls forward as the general jabs the spear, impaling the child through the chest. Staggering backwards, the child's body falls halfway to the ground, lifeless as the spear point sinks into the thick mud.

The feet remain on the ground, but the child's torso is now parallel with the ground, the butt of the spear pointing towards the sky. The blank eyes stare into the forest canopy, and the neck lets the head hang limply. The general reaches his hand into the pockets of his uniform and pulls out an amber bottle of liquid, of which he carefully pours half the contents over the body. He strides deliberately towards the original Mbuti fire surrounded by the dead, and removes a single large branch, burning at the end. The shadow dance changes, and suddenly the entire clearing is covered with ominous light patterns. The general ignores the change, holding the branch and flame to the flesh of the Mbuti child. The fire takes immediately and the smell of burning flesh fills the clearing as the child becomes an unnatural blaze in the center of the slaughter. The general turns away from his work, scouring the area with shrewd eyes.

"No, no! Leave the bodies where they are," he shouts to two young soldiers kneeling at the corner of the village, at the foot of a mass of dead pygmies. "What you have heard is not true." He turns to the official to emphasize his next words. "We are not cannibals. Not this militia."

The other man smiles sardonically as he watches the two soldiers return to their place in line as the general turns back to the forest, shouting orders.

As the soldiers stumble back into the forest, failing to avoid the low-hanging vines and tripping on the occasional brush decorating the ground, the light-skinned official hangs back. The official stares at the burning body as the general also returns to the cover of the forest. Then he follows.

And the jungle watches as each second comes and goes, and the omnipresent eyes gradually forget what they had seen as the clearing becomes part of the familiar again. The whistle of a tree hyrax transforms into a squeal and suddenly into the disconcerting scream of a child. As the cacophony fades, the crackle of flames in the flesh of the dead Mbuti fills the growing silence.

posted by Sarah Ruiz  # 11:03 PM