Imagining the Mind of a Martyr

June 11, 2008

GELILA YOFTAHE

Born to a strong Eritrean mother, he never could have been happier in the warmth of his family, freely playing with siblings, laughing and being a child while men on the battle fronts defended his right to exist. Always though, he was aware of the on-going battle, as the wounded came home and others never did…nobody had to tell him what he knew, because loss had touched every family, grief was openly expressed, and neighbors talk. The future martyr knew there was a deep, long and hard struggle going on, ever a threat hedging on the peripheries of his life.

Never knowing the events that would proceed when he became of age, he grew into a young boy whose dreams were taking flight as he imagined the great things he could do. Would he become an Olympic gold medalist? A wealthy business man or an architect that would build the most beautiful structures known to man? An artist, or musician with a message, or just live the quiet uncomplicated life of a father teaching his children how to sustain a farm… What lay before him? He could not wait. As he grew, the anticipation and dream began to fade as year after year he witnessed the brutal ways of the world, the greed of one man to wield power over the other...the stranger who would come unannounced to rip mother from child, to plunder, rape and kill, claiming lives of those he loved, coming again and again with the intent of taking sovereign land his father tilled with sweat, the land his mother raised her children on.

Now a man, he saw the continuous assault from the Ethiopian armies was like a recurring nightmare that would not cease; the necessity of survival, to guarantee and secure a life for his people, for his children, for himself…there were things that had to be done. Out of necessity, he would have to defend against these pirates who revisited unannounced to pillage and terrorize; this was the cost of war; the war waged that ravaged and raged, spreading like the unbearable heat of consuming fire…the choice was clear, to lie in wait of death, or to fight for Life.

He bent down to tie his boots...tired, his body aching from the weight of gun belts, yet he never acknowledged the pain as sweat poured profusely from every pore in his body, the gauze sheet twisted around his neck and back, intensified the heat, yet he needed it to lie and sleep in, and if need be for comrades to wrap and bury him in. Weary, but determined, he looked at the endless journey ahead. Thoughts race through his anguished mind… as he constantly assessed, analyzed - while focusing all around him - because not for a moment could he let his guard down, as that very moment could be that in which his life is lost. The price of war and the sweetness of freedom hung in the balance as he moved in between. Images of his family and fellow Eritreans ever-present, he knew that the only end must be victory. He had lost a brother in that same battle for Freedom, in revolutions that caused economic hardship and destruction of property, wars designed to prevent progress and encourage hopelessness. The cost had been high, and the highest…he knew, was the sacrifice of life, possibly his own, as those gone before him - their lives laid down for their people to have a right to walk the streets of their country with their heads up high, living in peace, tranquility and love; and the minute he forgets the reason for his own sacrifice, in the same minute remembers it, as the memories of those past lives lost rush to mind. Selflessly he moves forward, as he ponders the possibility that he may make it alive; fleetingly, but vividly he sees in his mind’s eye the celebratory moment of taking a seat at his father’s table and breaking bread with family and friends, relieved to be home… away from the stench of blood, of decomposing bodies and enemy fire…safe, warm, laughing once again and crying, as he re-tells stories of near misses, friends lost, and what kept him strong.

The martyr did not make it. We wonder what thoughts ran through his head in that final moment of impending death; wounded, lying on the dirt, the expanse of sky overhead…in the moment of irreversible truth as he pulls on his last breath. Could it be he was praying a last prayer for his people to make sure his death was not in vain? His will and hope would certainly be that his brothers and sisters would continue the fight for Sovereignty, that he would be remembered with awe and grace, and that we, as an extension of his Spirit, would take up where he left off and in all we do continue moving toward that end. That we would not forget nor take for granted his selfless gift for generations to come...

What then, is our part in this? As a physically scattered but a consciously united people, do we remember our brother for a slight moment or do we deeply ponder and feel the graciousness, the depth of his sacrificial act? Do we live everyday with the knowledge that there is nothing more significant or greater than the sacrifice that has allowed us to be the lucky ones, lucky enough to bear offspring, or continue education and follow dreams? Do we pause to take stock of the magnitude of the sacrifice of our Freedom Fighters who were strong yet tender and wise as they fought humanely and loyally, with generosity of spirit and godliness in their dealings, even with their prisoners of war, recognizing their own goal was to secure Freedom, by way of self-defense…not to torture or kill wantonly.

The ultimate sacrifice of the Martyr’s blood leaves me in awe and pain, agony and ecstasy of the magnificent, unconditional gift. There is nothing higher than that, nothing purer or quieting than that. Make it count and live your life with wisdom and grace.

To the Memory of the exquisite Spirit of our Martyrs.

In Their name, United we will Always Stand.

The content below this line is advertisement generated automatically and ertra.com doesn't control or endorse the content in anyway.

---