by Mitali Perkins based on real events

The soldiers had set fire to our village. Since I was a baby, I had fallen asleep to the music of rustling bamboo leaves. Now the bamboo, like my people, was almost gone.

The Burmese army wanted the Karenni to run away—especially those of us who worshipped Jesus Christ, the one true God. They wanted our land, our green rice paddies and our sparkling rivers. If they caught us, they would make us build roads and bridges, and force us to worship in Buddhist temples.

Some of my friends and relatives fled to hiding places in the jungle nearby, hoping and praying that they could return to the village soon. Others, like us, risked the longer journey to the refugee camp across the border in Thailand.

The camp looked like our village, but it wasn’t the same. We couldn’t leave the area. We couldn’t work to earn money. We couldn’t even plant our own food.

Each month, a relief truck brought food and medicine. My father and the other camp leaders divided the supplies carefully and stored the extra. After they had saved enough, the men would make a journey back across the border into the jungle. They would carry heavy bags of medicine, clothes, food and books to our people in hiding. How I wanted to join them! It was the only way to keep our people alive until we were free to go back to our village.

My cousin Sayareh and I decided to prepare ourselves. Day after day, we helped the men cut the bamboo that lined the river. We made fishing rods from bamboo poles. And Mother burned the stalks as fuel, frying the fish we caught with crunchy bamboo shoots. The branches and leaves grew back quickly, as if the bamboo knew we needed a constant supply.

Pack of Trouble

My 13th birthday came and went, but still Father didn’t seem to notice how strong I was becoming. Then one morning, his bag stood packed and ready by the door. It was time for another journey.

“Tooreh! Sayareh!” Father called. “One of the men is sick. To replace him, we must test all of you boys.”

We joined the crowd walking toward the church. Sayareh gripped my hand tightly. My heart raced and my mouth was dry.

The extra pack, large and bulky, waited on the altar behind Wareh, the camp leader.

“Which boys will take the test?” he asked.

Four of us stepped forward. Wareh pointed to the biggest boy. “You first. Carry the pack to the river, walk to the bend and then turn back. I will time how long you take.”

The boy nodded.

“Ready? Set. Go!”

The boy swung the pack on his shoulders and surged forward. We ran after him. If the river had been slow and shallow, he could have walked straight down the middle. But the straight course was full of shaded, slippery rocks and the current was strong in many places. The boy zigzagged instead, leaping from one sunny, dry rock to another and staying in shallow waters. When he finished, the pack was dry and his time was good.

The second boy took a deep breath and heaved the pack down the path. He managed to drag it to the bank before giving up. Leaving it there, he ran off to his hut. I could see his shoulders shaking. His parents followed with their eyes on the ground.

Next was Sayareh’s turn. I ran beside him, shouting encouragement. I knew he’d do the same for me. At the bank, he ran headlong into the water.

“Look out!” I called, staying close behind him. “You’re on the mossy rocks! You’ll slip. It’s too deep over here.” My cousin had never really learned to swim, but he was too excited to think straight.

Sayareh slipped and fell with the pack on top of him. The swift current dragged his head under. I dove into the water, but the current pulled and tugged us apart. With all my strength, I lunged forward and grabbed the handle on the pack. Sayareh was still clutching the rope that bound it.

“Don’t let go!” I shouted. Slowly, kicking against the current, I managed to drag him and the pack back to shallow water.

When we reached the bank, Sayareh was coughing. I was glad he was safe, but now the pack was soaked. It was almost twice as heavy as it had been when it was dry, and it was my turn to carry it. I might have beaten the big boy if Sayareh hadn’t fallen in. Now I wouldn’t have a chance.

Heavy Load

We trudged back to the church with Father easily carrying the pack.

“You can do it, Tooreh,” Sayareh whispered, staying close to me even though I knew he was fighting shame and disappointment.

I bit my lip hard so I wouldn’t say anything to make him feel worse. When the leader gave the signal, I heaved the wet pack across my shoulders and trotted off as fast as I could.

My first push took me to the river. I waded in, and the pack slid into the water with a splash. Struggling to my feet and hoisting it up again, I tried to think clearly. The boy I was trying to beat had veered and turned, keeping to the sunny, safe shallows down the middle of the river. I had to save energy and time—I needed to find a way to move fast along the far shore, straight to the bend and back. Desperately, silently, I asked God for help.

Then I caught sight of the bamboo leaning over the water. I splashed across the river and grabbed one strong, flexible stalk. Using one stalk after another, I swung myself from one slippery rock to the next. Bit by bit, I made my way along the shore to the bend, clinging to the bamboo like a lifeline.

By the time I made it back to the church, I was gasping for air. My shoulders were on fire from the weight of the pack. Somehow, as Sayareh shouted and cheered beside me, I stumbled and crawled to the altar. I didn’t care that I was using my hands as much as my feet.

Strong Finish

After dropping my load, I slumped on the ground beside Sayareh. I had taken much longer than the first boy, but at least I had made it. My father could hold his head high, even if I couldn’t join him on the journey into the jungle. Still, I choked back my disappointment at the thought of him leaving without me.

“We have the makings of four good men here,” Wareh said. “But one of them is most suited to go on this journey.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look at Father. My own sadness might be mirrored in his face. But Wareh continued, and I forced myself to listen.

He placed his hand on the shoulder of the big boy, who had made the task look so easy. “You did well,” he said. “We will take you next time.”

Then he walked over to me.

“Tooreh’s time was not the fastest,” Wareh said. “But he was the first one in the river to help his cousin. The pack was twice as heavy after it got wet, but he didn’t complain. He used the bamboo to give him strength when his own was running out. He never gave up. Tooreh is the kind of man we will need in our time of trouble.”

He lifted the pack. “Will you carry this again?” he asked me. “It will be lighter on the journey home.”

“I will,” I answered, looking over at Father, who was smiling and standing tall.

As the men began to pray for the journey, Sayareh handed me a cloth and pointed to my hands. They were bleeding, scraped by the bamboo that God had provided to help me complete the task. I pressed the cloth against the cuts, hoping they would leave a scar.

I wanted to remember the bamboo—generous, tough, sharp and strong. When we returned home, I would plant a new grove in our village, and it would grow there forever.

	Q: What kind of underwear do astronauts wear? A: Fruit of the Moon       Paul O., 10, Oregon Click here to subscribe