Latvia-Broken
anonymous
August 17 2009, 16:57:47 UTC
“Ludzu! Apturet!” he groaned as he rose to his feet. Please stop. They lashed out with metal rods and he fell to his knees. One kicked him in the stomach, and he dropped to the ground breathless, certain that he had broken a rib. His companion lay still beside him, and there was blood on the concrete.
He'd had dreams like this before. Growing up in the "bad parts" of Boston he'd been accustomed to the idea of being mugged--of being beaten to a pulp in a city of thousands, where no one gave a damn.
A boot pressed hard on his chest and he could smell the alcohol on the Policija's breath.
He was a missionary, and they were police. He was here to help the people, and they were here to defend them. Yet, here he lay bleeding and broken by the very people that should have protected him.
His eyes strayed to his companion who stirred slightly. Still alive…
The thought was broken as the Policija on top of him kicked hard, yelling something slurred by alcohol and anger.
He gasped for breath, and when the rod began to hit he was unable to even cry out.
His body screamed, his eyes squeezed tight in pain. His breathing was broken, (as were other parts) and in that instant he was certain that he was going to die.
And yet, for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to care.
The words came to him in English first, the words his grandmother had taught him accented by her mother-tongue.
Svctigi ir tie, kas cieo vajaoanu taisnibas dci, jo viou ir debesvalstiba.
“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
Grandmother, Vecmammas, had been ecstatic to learn that he would be returning to the land she had grown up in. The land she had escaped but still loved with all her being. If he died here, it wouldn’t matter. He would be buried with his great-grandparents and with their kin, and Grandmother’s love. He wouldn’t be alone. And in the end, that was just his physical body. The body that felt the rods strike down on him. They could not break the soul.
“Apturēt!” A voice shouted, and the Policija stopped.
He opened his eyes to see a young boy with mousy hair running towards them, screaming on the top of his lungs in Latvian, Russian, and a few other unfamiliar tongues for good measure.
The boy reached them and pulled the officers off, shouting at them, chastising them, all the while shaking in something between fear and fury.
“Jus esat latviesi!” the boy had shrieked, along with many things he could not understand. “Atcereties!”
The policija stood awkwardly around, moving out of the boy’s way as he went to attend the two men who had fallen to the wayside.
"Bet es jums saku: miliet savus ienaidniekus, dariet labu tiem, kas jus ienist, un lidziet Dievu par tiem, kas jus vaja un godu laupa," the boy whispered bitterly.
But I say to you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which spitefully use you, and persecute you.
“I’m jealous of you that still find it in you that believe it will do any good. But I suppose at times, I can be your Samaritan,” the strange boy shrugged nervously
“Paldies.” He had croaked out in response. Thank You.
“Jusu vecmammas,” the boy whispered into his ear, and in English added. “You are my son because of her.”
“Paldies. Es zinu.” I know.
Later as he lay in the hospital, he had wondered what the boy had meant. He didn't know why he had replied as he did, only that it was right, and that he wanted to talk to his grandmother desperatly.
But confused as he was though, he was certain that angels existed.
A/N- Based on an experience of a counselor I had once, who while on a mission in Latvia was attacked and beaten by drunken policeman. A young boy, a complete stranger, came to their rescue yelling in six languages and literally pulled them off him. When I heard the story I couldn’t help but think of Raivis. Because he’s not a trembling wimp all the time, and deserves a hero moment.
Also, I don't speak Latvian, so I apologize for any language fail/possible profanities created by lack of accent marks.
He'd had dreams like this before. Growing up in the "bad parts" of Boston he'd been accustomed to the idea of being mugged--of being beaten to a pulp in a city of thousands, where no one gave a damn.
A boot pressed hard on his chest and he could smell the alcohol on the Policija's breath.
He was a missionary, and they were police. He was here to help the people, and they were here to defend them. Yet, here he lay bleeding and broken by the very people that should have protected him.
His eyes strayed to his companion who stirred slightly. Still alive…
The thought was broken as the Policija on top of him kicked hard, yelling something slurred by alcohol and anger.
He gasped for breath, and when the rod began to hit he was unable to even cry out.
His body screamed, his eyes squeezed tight in pain. His breathing was broken, (as were other parts) and in that instant he was certain that he was going to die.
And yet, for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to care.
The words came to him in English first, the words his grandmother had taught him accented by her mother-tongue.
Svctigi ir tie, kas cieo vajaoanu taisnibas dci, jo viou ir debesvalstiba.
“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
Grandmother, Vecmammas, had been ecstatic to learn that he would be returning to the land she had grown up in. The land she had escaped but still loved with all her being.
If he died here, it wouldn’t matter. He would be buried with his great-grandparents and with their kin, and Grandmother’s love. He wouldn’t be alone. And in the end, that was just his physical body. The body that felt the rods strike down on him. They could not break the soul.
“Apturēt!” A voice shouted, and the Policija stopped.
He opened his eyes to see a young boy with mousy hair running towards them, screaming on the top of his lungs in Latvian, Russian, and a few other unfamiliar tongues for good measure.
The boy reached them and pulled the officers off, shouting at them, chastising them, all the while shaking in something between fear and fury.
“Jus esat latviesi!” the boy had shrieked, along with many things he could not understand. “Atcereties!”
The policija stood awkwardly around, moving out of the boy’s way as he went to attend the two men who had fallen to the wayside.
"Bet es jums saku: miliet savus ienaidniekus, dariet labu tiem, kas jus ienist, un lidziet Dievu par tiem, kas jus vaja un godu laupa," the boy whispered bitterly.
But I say to you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which spitefully use you, and persecute you.
“I’m jealous of you that still find it in you that believe it will do any good. But I suppose at times, I can be your Samaritan,” the strange boy shrugged nervously
“Paldies.” He had croaked out in response. Thank You.
“Jusu vecmammas,” the boy whispered into his ear, and in English added. “You are my son because of her.”
“Paldies. Es zinu.” I know.
Later as he lay in the hospital, he had wondered what the boy had meant. He didn't know why he had replied as he did, only that it was right, and that he wanted to talk to his grandmother desperatly.
But confused as he was though, he was certain that angels existed.
A/N- Based on an experience of a counselor I had once, who while on a mission in Latvia was attacked and beaten by drunken policeman. A young boy, a complete stranger, came to their rescue yelling in six languages and literally pulled them off him. When I heard the story I couldn’t help but think of Raivis. Because he’s not a trembling wimp all the time, and deserves a hero moment.
Also, I don't speak Latvian, so I apologize for any language fail/possible profanities created by lack of accent marks.
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It's beautiful.
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