The Potatoes

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three shots pierced the afternoon air, shattering the humid atmosphere and sending chills through the bones. I flinched. Nivolschiky was finally dead. The “human predator” Nivolschiky was a Georgian accomplice to massacres, murdering a horrifying number of Ossetians. My husband Phillip had been one of the victims; three years ago he died in front of me right here, as Nivolschiky’s bayonet stabbed his chest and sent the blood gushing down his clothes.

After Phil’s death, my kids and I roved around South Ossetia, absconding away from the hawk-eyed Nivolschiky. Everyday we trembled with fear of being captured and shot. We sometimes thought he was immortal, the only human who could combat death and win. However, deep inside me, there was something more than a fear that made me shudder: anger. The flames of anger burned feverishly in my mind every second I missed Phil. For three agonizing years I craved for an independence that would give me the chance to kill Nivolschiky with my own hands.

Just now the despicable enemy died, in front of me. Was he really Nivolschiky? I rubbed my eyes and tried to see his face more closely. Even before I fully recognized his death, another set of raucous bangs made me recoil back. Wide-eyed with fright, kids scuffled behind my back and leaned on my shoulders for a comfort. Another young man fell down with a thump, covered in bright red. I immediately noticed he was one of the fellow Georgian soldiers caught with Nivolschiky.

Again, nerve-wrecking gunshots rang aloud. This time, I instructed my kids not to put their heads up, so that they would not watch the blood spluttering everywhere. As I slowly turned my head to see the deceased soldier, I simply lost words. Bang! The last gunshot went off to make sure the man was dead. The last bullet seemed to wind around and fly towards me, puncturing the middle of my head. My heart stopped dead as the man’s slight jerk signaled the end of his life. I tried to breathe but the shock suffocated me. I tried to close my eyes but my eyelids did not even wince at the terrible death. Suddenly, everything in my sight blew up into confetti and the only person I could see was the dead man. No, he was not a dead man. He was a dead boy, Miriam.

Before the Ossetia-Georgia conflict, Miriam and I used to live next door. Even though we were all starving, we shared the small amount of foods together, as we were best friends. Around the time, the Georgian government allured the guiltless children to make them confess where the Ossetians were living. When the kids revealed the Ossetian hiding places, the government gave them some food or money. Penniless and destitute like everyone, Miriam could not endure the daily hunger anymore. Promptly, he gave away the details of my family and several other Ossetians’ dwelling places. As a reward, he received a bag of dirty potatoes.

Recalling Miriam's betrayal, I understood why the Ossetian soldiers killed him along with other captured Georgians. Nevertheless, he was a child. He was the same age as my younger son George, turning 10 this year. As I gazed at Miriam’s grubby face with sad, open eyes, hot tears trickled down my cheeks. What I had plainly wanted was a revenge on Nivolschiky, and freedom granted to my people. Now I think about it, was I oblivious of this bloodstained independence? Was I no different from an innocent, hungry child, who had simply wanted the shabby potatoes?