Marsha handed him a composition notebook. “As a journalism major, you should know the pen was always thought to be mightier than the sword.”
Deni handled the cheap composition notebook in his hands and then flipped through the blank pages. “Is it, or does the pen simply inspire the sword?”
“Writing is liberating. You can be anywhere and anything you want inside this book. Let it go,” she said.
Deni did feel a sense of liberation despite his imprisonment. Even though his body was in captivity, his mind was free to wonder. As Marsha and Viktor were getting ready to leave, Marsha had a prison guard release Deni’s right hand from restraints so he could write. Once again alone, Deni stared at the composition book and wondered where to begin. The first word he wrote on the first page of the book was freedom:
Freedom: My father always said freedom was for fools who didn’t know what to do with it, yet for ages so many people fought and died for freedom. Slaves were locked in cages and shackles
—
their physical presence a threat to their masters. Artists, writers and poets were ousted from society
—
their visions, thoughts and musings a threat to kings and leaders.
Deni paused for a moment, staring at the page and then wrote:
Lovers kept apart
—
their hearts a threat to families and society. If freedom is such a great thing, why are so many people afraid of it, afraid to give it, afraid to fight for it and truly afraid to believe in it? If there was true freedom in the world, we would all be without shackles.
He closed his composition book and rested his head on the pillow.
We are all slaves of some kind, to our families, to our country, to our masters and mostly to our minds
.
Deni’s fifth grade school teacher, Ms. Eaman, counted heads as they stepped off the school bus outside a historical Pennsylvania park in Pine Forge. “Now find your partner. Remember how we talked about walking in pairs,” she said to her students.
Ten-year-old Deni found his partner, his first American buddy, Hector Ramirez. They had become inseparable friends, playing football and video games nearly every day after school. When the students formed the best line a group of ten-year-olds could muster, Ms. Eaman led them into an old stone mansion, which was arranged to show the polished antique furniture of its previous owner.
Ms. Eaman gathered her students around a small hole in the ground. “This house once belonged to Abolitionist, Thomas Rutter. Does anyone remember what abolitionist means?”
A young female student raised her hand. “Someone who fought against slavery.”
“That’s right,” said Ms. Eaman. “Thomas Rutter was an abolitionist. He believed in helping the freedom of the slaves. Another famous abolitionist, Frederick Douglas, said, ‘No man can put a chain about the ankle of his fellow man without finding the other end fastened around his neck.’ Does anyone know what he meant by that?” Ms. Eaman gazed at her overwhelmed fifth grade class. “It means no one is free unless everyone is free. It means even if someone takes the freedom from another, he is not free.”
Deni stared at Ms. Eaman and thought of his father’s words,
Freedom is for fools who didn’t know what to do with it.
The idea of freedom confounded young Deni. What was it¾the freedom to play without rules, to have no curfew and have no bedtime? Were his parents denying his own freedom when they gave him chores? His thoughts were interrupted as Ms. Eaman continued her lecture.
“Remember how we talked about Harriet Tubman and how she helped free many slaves from slavery in the south through the Underground Railroad. During that time, many people who felt sympathy for the slaves offered those escaping from the south a safe haven. Harriet Tubman said, ‘Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember you have within you the strength, the patience and the passion to reach for the stars and change the world.’ It was Harriet Tubman’s dream to help return the dreams of many of the slaves. Isn’t that nice?” Ms. Eaman asked.
Deni and all her students nodded. “This house is part of what was known as the Underground Railroad. Now I know what you’re thinking, where would they put the railroad? But this was a special railroad. Slaves would run at night from one safe place to another. Sometimes it was an underground tunnel, sometimes it was someone’s house. Ironmaster, Thomas Rutter, would hide escaping slaves.”
Ms. Eaman pointed to a hole in the ground that looked like an underground stone chimney. “This hole drops about five feet and then turns to the right in pitch darkness. This is where fleeing slaves would have hid during daylight. Many of the slaves were sick and wounded and some didn’t survive the rugged conditions of their escape.” She looked around at her students. “Can you imagine having to crawl through something that small and dark for your freedom? Can you imagine what it would be like being sick and dying having to flee for your freedom?”
All her wide-eyed students shook their heads.
“The tunnel,” Ms. Eaman continued, “is believed to extend from the mansion which exits at the base of that old tree.”
“Can we go inside?” asked one of her male students.
“No it is far too dangerous and the conditions of the tunnel are not good,” she replied.
Deni stood at the edge and looked down into the hole. An eerie sensation overcame him. The hair on his arms stood up and his heart started thumping. He stepped away from the hole and away from the class.
“Are you okay, Deni?” asked Ms. Eaman.
Deni nodded, but he was not. This place gave him the creeps. Even in the daylight it was spooky; he could hear whispers and the breeze blowing through the trees played tricks on his imagination. Surely this place was haunted with all the poor slaves who did not survive their journey.
He wondered what it would have been like to be a slave, to escape oppression and persecution only to die trying. He felt sorry for them and believed had he lived during that time, he would have helped hide them and helped keep them alive.
A few children chattered on the way home from the field trip, but Deni remained silent. The Underground Railroad had a profound impact on Deni. It reminded him of his family’s late night escape from home in Chechnya.
As the bus drove home from the field trip, Deni realized that people were fleeing all around the world from something or another. No one was really safe anywhere. When he arrived home, the first thing he did was look for Bashir, but he was not home from work just yet. Instead he sat on the kitchen floor without a word, while Kamiila made dinner. He imagined places in the house to hide if anyone came for them. He was never afraid of the world until now.
“Why don’t you go play with Hector?” Kamiila suggested as she was getting tired of stepping over him.
“I want to be with you,” he responded dully.
Kamiila knew something was wrong; he never wanted to spend time with her anymore. “How was your field trip?”
“It sucked!” he said. “All we saw was a hole in the ground. What’s so special about that?”
Kamiila was unfamiliar with the Underground Railroad. “A hole is not so special, but what you put in it is. Some people bury treasure.”
“They hid slaves escaping from the south,” replied Deni.
“I would say that is special,” said Kamiila. She looked down at him, still not understanding what was wrong. He was always so chatty, but when something really bothered him he shut up like a clam. “What’s wrong Deni?” she finally asked sternly.
“Why do people need to hurt other people?” he questioned.
“Because they don’t know how to love,” she said.
That was his mother’s answer for everything—love. He remembered she gave Mikail the same answer when living in Russia and what good did it do them? Deni collapsed and spread out on the floor. He sighed heavily. “Doncha think love causes more problems? Everyone’s doing stuff for love and getting killed.” he said.
Kamiila stared at her little philosopher sprawled across her kitchen floor. She didn’t have time for a philosophic debate with her ten-year-old. “I don’t think I’m going to have dinner ready by the time your father gets home if you don’t get up. Why don’t you go put on cartoons or something?”
“Ma, slaves died trying to escape for freedom and you want me to watch cartoons? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?” Deni whined.
“Honey, slavery in America has long since passed. There is nothing that can be done about it now. The best thing you can do, is be grateful for your life and have compassion for others,” explained Kamiila.
Deni shrugged his shoulders heavily and walked toward the living room.
It just doesn’t seem to be enough
, he thought.
Deni was never able to relieve the heaviness of that day. Pine Forge not only haunted him throughout most of his life but it became a statement. Whenever he wondered of injustices in the world, Pine Forge and the escaping slaves came to mind.
Today he lay in a hospital bed cuffed to the bed with restraints, considered a danger to himself and others. It all seemed rather ironic.
I never laid a fist on anyone. I never threatened another human being with harm and I never even insulted another person’s character, but here I am, at age nineteen, one of the world’s most dangerous men. Of course I’m dangerous, I didn’t accept the status quo of the powerful men who dictate the definitions of justice
.
He pressed his pen to the composition pad and wrote:
For some it is easier to accept oppression than to endure the hardship of fighting for freedom. Is freedom only for the brave who are willing to stand up and fight? Is freedom really worth that much
—
lives, love, and liberty? Is accepting and tolerating government and corporate control an easier way to go?
No one can escape slavery; we are all slaves in some regard. We are slaves to our parent’s expectations. We are slaves to the pressures of our peers. We are slaves to our own ideologies and faiths. We are even slaves to the love in our hearts. Perhaps my father was right, ‘only fools believe in freedom’.
We believe that even if we fight for someone, die for something there will be change, but really we just keep facing. There will always be some self-imposed opposition that everyone will always have to face even if all the leaders of the world step down. Until our minds and our hearts are completely liberated, we are all enslaved.
Deni placed his composition book on his lap and rested his free right hand on the bar of the hospital bed. Despite being strapped to his bed, he couldn’t help feeling freer than most people in the world, or at least he thought at the moment.
Chapter 9
Deni awoke the next morning in the isolated hospital room, but surprisingly he didn’t feel lonely. He was oddly at peace. A prison guard entered and handed Deni a telephone. Deni stared at it curiously, thinking it was Marsha. “Hello.” He listened and then his voice cracked upon hearing the voice on the other end. “I’m so sorry.”
Nothing in the world could describe the anguish Bashir felt at that moment. It was such an overwhelming sense of pain, grief, mourning, and disappointment. His hope as a father vanished in a flash. “How are you feeling?” Bashir asked on the other line.
“I’m fine. They’re taking care of me okay.” Deni hesitated and then joked. “I’m already making friends.”
Bashir remained silent on the other end of the line and then replied, “Good.”
“How’s ma?” Deni asked.
“Devastated.”
“What about Mik?”
“At rest,” replied Bashir.
Deni could tell by the sound of his father’s voice that there was a lot more he was holding back—a lot more and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know, but he couldn’t help himself. “What’s going on out there?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with now. Just get well,” Bashir replied stoically.
“Everyone hates me now, don’t they?” Deni asked.
“Son, what did you expect?” questioned Bashir. “Did you really expect them to understand? No one understands violence when it is directed at them—no one. People can accept and make excuses when violence is on their side, but not when it is used against them.”
“I’m sorry pop. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” replied Deni.
“It’s not me you should feel sorry for. I am your father, I will always love you, but when you spread hate, hate will follow you.”
“But I don’t hate anyone, really,” pleaded Deni.
“I know you don’t, but your actions suggest otherwise.” Bashir paused. There was so much on his mind, so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to say it. Scolding his son now just seemed trivial. He could only wish his son well and give him his love. “Take care of yourself and be good. I love you.”
“I will. Love you too, pop. Bye,” Deni replied soberly.
Deni hung up the phone and rested his head against his pillow. He didn’t need to be in Bashir’s presence to feel his disappointment. It was one of the worst things a young man could do: disappoint his father. He and his brother brought shame to his family and the Daudov name.
Hate
, Deni thought. He never hated. It was never a feeling he owned as a child, as a young boy and even into his pre-teen years. He did remember the day hate started to brew inside him.