[APH] Faith
Title: Faith
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Haiti, the Philippines (by peculuiarities
Genre/Rating/Warnings: General, Hurt/Comfort/PG 13/existentialist vibes, questioning religion
Summary/Excerpt: Juan and Agwe have a talk in the aftermath of the earthquake.
A/N: X-posted at nationslash and hetalia_ph. Juan = the Philippines, Agwe = Haiti
Faith
Juan holds Agwe’s hand as he takes another shuddering breath. He cannot fathom which hurts more, the wounds or the medicines.
They’re on the sidewalk of a broken street near a damaged hospital where the bodies of the dead, the dying and the sick and injured come pouring in great numbers. Getting any sort of treatment is a luxury. Friends and relatives cry beside their loved ones. A few more composed individuals take to treating whom they can. The sidewalk is a place where no one discriminates, because it is in human suffering where people come together (nations hope in happiness too, but such a goal is a far dream).
“How’s your cold?” Juan asks softly. He sees Agwe’s face twitch to awakening and almost feels guilty for having spoken in the first place.
Agwe’s eyes slowly open, overbright and reflective of the blue sky. “Brother,” he begins, voice raspy and raw. “My people are dying around you and you ask me how my economy is?” He laughs and Juan’s cheeks burn with further embarrassment.
He smooths Agwe’s sheets like his volunteers do back in the old hospital, in an attempt to distract himself from the awkward feeling. “It’s my customary greeting, Agwe. You know how much I’m worried about you,” Juan replies steadily.
Agwe is still amused. “Of course I do. But you know, brother, you should not have asked such a question at all!”
Juan sighs amidst the chuckles and looks around. No, they are no strangers to scenes like this. Scenes of devastation, of torn families, of the poor getting poorer by circumstances completely out of their hands. Juan assumes Agwe sees this every day, as he does back in his own home. He wonders who to blame, and thinks of his pasts, of textbook stories history teachers teach the kids in those run down public schools by the hills and wonders if the blame lies in no one but themselves.
Reporters from all over the world amble by carrying cameras and handkerchiefs and water bottles. One of them sees a child, orphaned and carrying a bible.
“I am not afraid, because God is with me!” The declaration is bold and stinging.
Juan is torn between thinking 'Bullshit' and feeling hope. He lets go of Agwe’s hands and tries to rub the exhaustion off his face.
“…do you think there is retribution for us nations?” he asks his dear friend lying on the sidewalk.
Agwe fixes Juan with a stern stare. “What are you saying, brother?”
Juan eyes the wooden cross resting on his bare chest. He has a lot to say, his observations about colonized countries that had been converted to Christianity never seeming to alleviate themselves from poverty, about how insane humans are to keep on believing on something which they don’t understand, which might just not exist at all, but are still being able to draw strength from air.
He pities how they just wait and pray and accept like something really is there for them. They believe, so hard and strong to a fault that something will be there and that’s truth enough for them. Truth that isn’t truth at all. It makes Juan’s head hurt.
Agwe doesn’t answer right away. His expression softens. He’s been through Juan’s dilemma time and time again, but his people are faithful and so his he.
“A priest once asked us if we understood what it was to suffer. He told us that if we did, then there would be no need for a God. Suffering is a part of us, and we are a part of God and so we need not understand what suffering is. We simply need to have faith.”
Juan laughs amidst tearing eyes. “It’s like telling someone to eat shit thrown at his face because eventually he’ll get chicken!”
Agwe smiles weakly at the humor. “Juan,” he begins, kindly and tiredly. “Our people do not have the luxury of time to be humans, to indulge themselves and complain how unfair life is, or else they’ll be spending the entirety of their existence in tears. This is their coping mechanism.” He gestures around him with a dusty arm.
Juan watches as the child with the bible sings hymns to no one in particular. Others around him have joined. Agwe continues, looking at the sky. “They can’t cry for themselves, that is why we are here. We feel their pain and share their joys, because they can’t live long enough to do these things for themselves.”
“You know what annoys me the most?” Juan says and Agwe looks at him. “It’s the fact that our people believe in a God and find strength so powerful that we nations can’t hope to build such a will unless we’re given enough time to lick our own wounds.”
Agwe replies, “Ah, that is the beauty and endurance of mortal beings. They are enviable sometimes, aren’t they?”
Juan holds his head in his hands. “If only they’d realize that strength comes from no one but themselves, the whole world would probably be much better off by now.”
“Probably,” Agwe muses. “But remember, brother, humans are not wired that way. If they were, they might as well not be human at all.” He pushes himself up and leans closer to Juan, as if to divulge many secrets of the universe.
“We keep these little things to ourselves,” he begins. “So they,” he points to the singing children and women and wounded men. “…can keep on living by however they want as long as they want.” He eases back onto his thin blanket and closes his eyes. “Narrow-minded things, our people are, but very strong. You will see, after all this singing and crying, some will die, some will live, most will rebuild and everyone will endure.”
Juan frowns. “You will still be poor. I will still be poor. We will still be poor and our people will still look to a God who isn’t there, for their salvation.”
“Then let them.”
Agwe has peace on his face. The hymns are lifting the sorrows from their chests, calming the crowd, even for just a moment. “When they endure, we nations will also endure.”
They listen for a while, before Agwe speaks again. “Our duty, do you remember?”
Juan understands. We are the ones who cry. We are the ones who laugh. We are the ones whose hearts go out to the enemies and friends, because we are all but the same race, on one tiny planet revolving around a tiny sun in a far part of a vast galaxy spinning softly in an even more vast universe, which may be on a speck of something infinitely larger.
There are no differences among us.
There is no retribution for nations, because they are the only ones who know there is no God. But they believe, if only to have somewhere to draw their own strength from. Nations believe in their people, people who have faith. Just enough to give them courage to wake up in the morning and live like it was their last day.
END
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Haiti, the Philippines (by peculuiarities
Genre/Rating/Warnings: General, Hurt/Comfort/PG 13/existentialist vibes, questioning religion
Summary/Excerpt: Juan and Agwe have a talk in the aftermath of the earthquake.
A/N: X-posted at nationslash and hetalia_ph. Juan = the Philippines, Agwe = Haiti
Faith
Juan holds Agwe’s hand as he takes another shuddering breath. He cannot fathom which hurts more, the wounds or the medicines.
They’re on the sidewalk of a broken street near a damaged hospital where the bodies of the dead, the dying and the sick and injured come pouring in great numbers. Getting any sort of treatment is a luxury. Friends and relatives cry beside their loved ones. A few more composed individuals take to treating whom they can. The sidewalk is a place where no one discriminates, because it is in human suffering where people come together (nations hope in happiness too, but such a goal is a far dream).
“How’s your cold?” Juan asks softly. He sees Agwe’s face twitch to awakening and almost feels guilty for having spoken in the first place.
Agwe’s eyes slowly open, overbright and reflective of the blue sky. “Brother,” he begins, voice raspy and raw. “My people are dying around you and you ask me how my economy is?” He laughs and Juan’s cheeks burn with further embarrassment.
He smooths Agwe’s sheets like his volunteers do back in the old hospital, in an attempt to distract himself from the awkward feeling. “It’s my customary greeting, Agwe. You know how much I’m worried about you,” Juan replies steadily.
Agwe is still amused. “Of course I do. But you know, brother, you should not have asked such a question at all!”
Juan sighs amidst the chuckles and looks around. No, they are no strangers to scenes like this. Scenes of devastation, of torn families, of the poor getting poorer by circumstances completely out of their hands. Juan assumes Agwe sees this every day, as he does back in his own home. He wonders who to blame, and thinks of his pasts, of textbook stories history teachers teach the kids in those run down public schools by the hills and wonders if the blame lies in no one but themselves.
Reporters from all over the world amble by carrying cameras and handkerchiefs and water bottles. One of them sees a child, orphaned and carrying a bible.
“I am not afraid, because God is with me!” The declaration is bold and stinging.
Juan is torn between thinking 'Bullshit' and feeling hope. He lets go of Agwe’s hands and tries to rub the exhaustion off his face.
“…do you think there is retribution for us nations?” he asks his dear friend lying on the sidewalk.
Agwe fixes Juan with a stern stare. “What are you saying, brother?”
Juan eyes the wooden cross resting on his bare chest. He has a lot to say, his observations about colonized countries that had been converted to Christianity never seeming to alleviate themselves from poverty, about how insane humans are to keep on believing on something which they don’t understand, which might just not exist at all, but are still being able to draw strength from air.
He pities how they just wait and pray and accept like something really is there for them. They believe, so hard and strong to a fault that something will be there and that’s truth enough for them. Truth that isn’t truth at all. It makes Juan’s head hurt.
Agwe doesn’t answer right away. His expression softens. He’s been through Juan’s dilemma time and time again, but his people are faithful and so his he.
“A priest once asked us if we understood what it was to suffer. He told us that if we did, then there would be no need for a God. Suffering is a part of us, and we are a part of God and so we need not understand what suffering is. We simply need to have faith.”
Juan laughs amidst tearing eyes. “It’s like telling someone to eat shit thrown at his face because eventually he’ll get chicken!”
Agwe smiles weakly at the humor. “Juan,” he begins, kindly and tiredly. “Our people do not have the luxury of time to be humans, to indulge themselves and complain how unfair life is, or else they’ll be spending the entirety of their existence in tears. This is their coping mechanism.” He gestures around him with a dusty arm.
Juan watches as the child with the bible sings hymns to no one in particular. Others around him have joined. Agwe continues, looking at the sky. “They can’t cry for themselves, that is why we are here. We feel their pain and share their joys, because they can’t live long enough to do these things for themselves.”
“You know what annoys me the most?” Juan says and Agwe looks at him. “It’s the fact that our people believe in a God and find strength so powerful that we nations can’t hope to build such a will unless we’re given enough time to lick our own wounds.”
Agwe replies, “Ah, that is the beauty and endurance of mortal beings. They are enviable sometimes, aren’t they?”
Juan holds his head in his hands. “If only they’d realize that strength comes from no one but themselves, the whole world would probably be much better off by now.”
“Probably,” Agwe muses. “But remember, brother, humans are not wired that way. If they were, they might as well not be human at all.” He pushes himself up and leans closer to Juan, as if to divulge many secrets of the universe.
“We keep these little things to ourselves,” he begins. “So they,” he points to the singing children and women and wounded men. “…can keep on living by however they want as long as they want.” He eases back onto his thin blanket and closes his eyes. “Narrow-minded things, our people are, but very strong. You will see, after all this singing and crying, some will die, some will live, most will rebuild and everyone will endure.”
Juan frowns. “You will still be poor. I will still be poor. We will still be poor and our people will still look to a God who isn’t there, for their salvation.”
“Then let them.”
Agwe has peace on his face. The hymns are lifting the sorrows from their chests, calming the crowd, even for just a moment. “When they endure, we nations will also endure.”
They listen for a while, before Agwe speaks again. “Our duty, do you remember?”
Juan understands. We are the ones who cry. We are the ones who laugh. We are the ones whose hearts go out to the enemies and friends, because we are all but the same race, on one tiny planet revolving around a tiny sun in a far part of a vast galaxy spinning softly in an even more vast universe, which may be on a speck of something infinitely larger.
There are no differences among us.
There is no retribution for nations, because they are the only ones who know there is no God. But they believe, if only to have somewhere to draw their own strength from. Nations believe in their people, people who have faith. Just enough to give them courage to wake up in the morning and live like it was their last day.
END