The Boy with Cigarette Burns
What I could see was twelve. Twelve burns. What I couldn’t see was probably another fifteen or so that riddled his body. A boy no older than five was literally being burned at home and all I could say was “Jesus loves you, little man”, it just didn’t feel like enough. I fed him, I played with him, I bandaged his wounds, and then I walked away. I so badly wanted to hold him forever, to let no one touch him again. I didn’t want to leave him, but eventually reality set in and I left him. I had to. There was no other choice. Yes, I could have held him for a couple more hours or made him laugh a couple more laughs, but we both knew what he was going back to. We both knew the pain he was going to endure for the rest of his life. So I sat there, loving and hugging him. I sat there making him feel safe, even if it was just for a moment in time. I sat there fighting for him because no one else would. I sat there fighting his demons for a brief moment in time. I sat there trying to even make the smallest of differences.
While I was holding him I had hundreds of questions racing through my head, and none of them were for his parents. None of them were for his parents, because honestly I probably wouldn’t want to hear their excuses anyways, I probably wouldn’t understand them either. All my questions were directed at people like me. All of them were for the people that held him and the people that walked away from him. I asked “How many arms did he finally feel safe in?”, “How many people have walked away and not done anything?” and “How many people just turned a blind eye”. These are the questions that haunt me when I think about him.
Honestly it’s kind of depressing if you think about it. The depressing part isn’t the fact that the boy is going through horrendous pain and agony. Don’t get me wrong that is sad and awful, but the depressing part is realizing how many people could have helped him, but didn’t. The ones that saw him and said “let’s do something about this”, but realized how hard it actually was, gave up, and cut it as a loss. They cut him as a loss because it was easier. It’s depressing because you can’t actually do anything about it. All you can do is fight for him at a distance. You can love him, you can hold him, but in a lot of ways you can’t protect him. You can bring him joy, but you can only bring safety for a moment.
This was honestly one of the hardest things to walk away from. I didn’t walk away because I wanted too. I walked away because my time with him was up. So what do you do? What can you do?
The only real thing that can help him is remembering him. I can’t just take him away, even though I so badly want to. I can’t because legally I’m not allowed to do or say anything. What I can do is remember. I have to remember him. I have to remember his story. Realizing this now, is that this story isn’t about the boy with cigarette burns, but this is the story about the boy with true joy. So let’s start over.
I watch as a little boy who is no older than five run down a dirt path with all he has. He laughs, kicks and screams with so much joy. He laughs as his arms pump as fast as possible to make his little body move at a pace in which he can’t handle. There’s a bright gleam in his eyes which I can’t place. I bend down and open my arms, watching as he gets closer and closer and then in a split second he crashes into my arms with all he has. He hugs me and places his head on my shoulder as we walk over to the line for food.
I can feel it. I can feel the happiness radiating off of him. There is so much of it that his little body can’t contain it. He sits there smiling as he eats his cup of rice and chicken soup, so content and so happy. That smile never leaves his face, and I hope it never does.
I pick him up and we dance and twirl. I threw him up in the air one last time, he giggles and screeches, and I see it again, that gleam in his eyes. That’s when I get it. This boy is the epitome of joy. He walks into everything with joy. His life isn’t the greatest, actually it’s probably worse than most of yours, yet somehow he finds joy in it. Already at the age of five, he, knows that Joy will come in the morning. He finds joy in running into strangers arms, he finds joy in eating chicken and rice soup for the umpteenth time. He finds joy in the small everyday activities.
So I watch him. I watch as he waves so vigorously, that it looks like he might fly away. I watch as that smile doesn’t leave his face as we part ways. I watch as he skips back home so cheerfully. I watch as this boy with so much joy goes back into the war and I pray he never loses that joy.
