Father of the Freedom Struggle

They called me the “Father of the Freedom Struggle.” When they were starving and poor, they looked to me for guidance. I was their last hope. For as long as the meek shall inherit the Earth, the Father of the Freedom Struggle will create the hope and dreams for a better future. The prophecies predicted an end to the decades of conflict, with new possibilities for the families of fallen soldiers, for the poverty stricken, and for the misfortunate. The hope for an enlightened future lived in the hearts of all my people; they called me their savior but the truth was that the fight was empowered not by my military tactics, but by their prayers. The strength of thousands of able-bodied men faltered under the courage of a few good men, and their wives, and their children. They called me their “Messiah.” They worshipped me as their God, and believed that I created miracles unmatched by any man in history. In fact, many believed that not even a God could do for them what I had managed to do in my time. My people refused to retreat; they refused to die on their knees. I preached of unity, the cooperative effort of all my people fighting for one cause. I told them to fight and to love; I told them to live but that many of them would die. I was their freedom fighter, their father, their messiah, yet I still failed to provide the reality of an enlightened future; I failed to fulfill the prophecy. My people died, all of them. Their courage couldn’t match the destructive power of tanks, and machine guns, and a new invention that baffled the minds of many, one that created lights and heat similar to that prophesized as the apocalypse. It decimated my people, burned their homes, and destroyed the hope I had worked so hard to create in the hearts of so many. I escaped the end, but couldn’t escape the struggle.

I find myself crawling head first into a river basin deep in the heart of Africa years late. I’ve waged a new war in a new area, where hope glistens in the eyes of each new freedom fighter. It’s similar to that of the original struggle, except for the new technologies that provide my people with a good chance of survival. This time I refused to be unprepared; this time I refused to allow my people to falter in the face of evil. I began my new journey in the Congo, gathering the willing to fight. After a time period which I believe to be about thirty two months, I find myself hiding out against a group of Congonese military troops ordered to kill the leader of the freedom rebellion. I’m not quite sure if I am even in the Congo anymore. The landscape provides evidence that I could be just miles away from the border of Sudan. It began in a small tribal community, where I gathered families to take arms. I fed their minds with revolutionary ideas and fed their famined stomachs full. Any people reluctant to join the struggle, skeptical of its possibilities, gained new hope when I provided them with food to nurture their aching bodies. When it came time for my new recruits to raise arms, they roared with fierce courage. We were in the midst of a revolution, one that would have lasting implications on the Congo. The government promised that it would brutally crush our forces if we created conflict, but my people were unwavering and unwilling to suffer under the same conditions.

Almost three years later, the war wages on. We have since the beginning, torn
branches of the Congonese government to shreds and established military
posts in secret locations across the country. The government still manages to survive
under the leadership of my former co-commander, Zambia. The conflict has taken much
loner than I had hoped and our revolutionary dreams have since diminished greatly.
Every night, I wake up from nightmares of past battles, recounting the losses,
remembering the terror. I carry the guilt of thousands of innocent deaths. I told these
people to live, but that many of them would die. The struggle for an enlightened future
lost it’s meaning, as the hope in the hearts of the freedom fights was buried deep, like
their cold, dead bodies. Would a father forsake his children like how I have forsaken mine? Each new day my beard grows bushier, the blood in my veins boils over from the intense heat, and sweat stains the collars of my outfit. Each fallen soldier carries with him the guilt that haunts my dreams and scars my soul. I create a strong and ruthless persona for my people and for my foes, but I’ve grown weak over the years. So weak that I’ve contemplated surrender to the enemy; so weak that I’ve considered suicide. The fiery flames of Hell seem more merciful and sympathetic than this corrupt world. Everyday I pray for the fallen soldiers, and wonder why He allowed me to escape the decimation of the flesh-eating lights. My survival must have been a mistake. I was meant to have died in the explosion, beside my people. I was too stubborn to have died, to cowardly.

The prophecies all predicted the end of the struggle. I tampered with fate, and created new warfare when God had clearly meant to end it. I slowly crawl from out of the hole dug for me beside the river basin and I raise myself off my knees. I once preached to my people, in an effort to rally their support, that it was better to die standing than to live on your knees. At that moment, a group of Congonese military troops spotted me, and opened fire with their weapons. The decades of conflict had finally ended, just like it had been prophesized, but with them died the hopes and dreams of the one they called the “Father of the Freedom Struggle.”