Leaving

I am not scared. Not of what is out there, as that is unknown. I can speculate, sure, but fully grasp, really understand, no. But I am scared. I am scared of the returning. Of what I’m going to find.

This farm life is all I’ve ever experienced. What I feel. What I love. I stare out at this landscape, its vastness, sun-scorched and arid, and there is an affiliation from growing up here. Childhood play and working the land. And in the new landscapes, across the seas, what could be my emotional response? Will there be a connection? An adjustment? But I am not afeared, not of the strange lands. No. I fear the landscape of my soul.

When Grandpa came back, I asked him about his experience. Do you know what he said? He said it was as if they had splintered his soul. He said he learned of his insubstantiality. Those words, he must have thought hard about them. Is that what I need to learn? To find a new compass for fragmented terrains, unsettled realms? I realise I have to leave, but how am I to return burdened with all these learnings? Who could I become? Will they recognise me and I them? And this landscape? A vast red dusty landscape of childhood and boyhood innocence. From whose eyes shall I view it?

Check it out. The dark sky transforms. The stars are less bright. Soon a thin strip of orange colour should coat the horizon. Cold before the dawn. Thank you for your warmth. Your cuddles.

Is there a chance we’ll win? Be victorious? What is victory other than a means to return home to the family, this land? Who is the enemy? The people we are shooting at? The ones orchestrating the hostilities? The ones who allowed the war?

These are my summons—formal, stamped with seals of jurisdiction. Embossed with the insignia of command. See, adorned with heraldic symbols. My authority. My permission. We used to look forward to picking up the post. Mail from far-off. But the anticipation now?

I am supposed to go to war. I am supposed to feel that it is right to go to war. It is the right thing to do, isn’t it? Leave my family, these lands, to fight, to make war. But the idea seems hard to contemplate from here, an overseas war with a silent enemy, not known of, until now. Even now.

My conscience, being taught, should guide and propel a sense of irrational, a singular focus to defend and protect. Still, these individuals, my adversaries, are unfamiliar to me. Those who are preparing to fight me. I’m uncertain whom I defend. Perhaps if the conflict was here, in these lands, I could understand more.

They say in war, truth is always distorted and becomes questionable. No right, no wrong. How does one navigate that? If there is no truth, where do you shelter? Where is the security? The certainty? The hope? From my perspective, here, my life as it was is over.

What is next? A shattering of homes, towns, habitats, animals’ lives, individuals’ lives, souls? The stories we read in the papers, written by those who have never and never shall go, are all expressions, sentences, and paragraphs fashioned with locally produced emotions. Yet the truth remains uncertain. What would these people of words, these people of speeches, really believe if they were the ones to be stripped naked, prisoners to be ordered, paraded and being asked, why did you want this? What would they say? What might be my response?

Guns and hunting - we both grew up with that. You are the great retriever and me, the crack shot taught so as not to inflict harm. The quick and clean kill. Minimise suffering. Drummed into us. But can I do that to a fellow human, inflict a quick and clean kill? I don’t see this as a component of the life cycle, the food chain. What is it, this part of this theatre of war? This killing? And what of Sunday school teachings? I worry that I may not be able to pull the trigger, step over the boundary line, that line which knowingly cripples or causes suffering or death. Certainly grief. It may be easier to cross over, embrace the inevitable, embrace death, but on-one seems to do that – or it is not spoken of. Never mentioned. I guess no-one really knows what they might do until they are in that situation.

How can a mind grasp such a situation? Maybe we prefer not to. Maybe that is why we veil our convictions and prefer to side with the propaganda. The words and the speeches.

I love this time of the morning, before the sun. The silence. The soft diffused light without shadows, without the heat, without the burn. And such colour transformations. It’s as if someone takes the thin strip of pigment lying on the horizon and pulls it upward, a canvass colouring the sky. Look, a gang of black cockatoos on easy wing making towards the river, their dark plumage so stark against the vault of pale colours. And down there a mob of grey kangaroos, hushed in the long dry grasses. No, leave them alone.

Please be quiet. Please. I don’t want them to awaken. It’s not that I don’t wish to see them, to hug them, but it’s simply that we had such a good time last night, the whole family together, laughing, teasing and singing. I just want that memory, you know, not the sadness, only the happiness. I want to remember the laughter, the joy, embedded and safe for those times… and our songs. For those alone times.

Here she comes, the golden orb casting shadows. See the intense light as it flickers through the trees, as if projected, aimed, searching. And the soft pastel colours must fade. She has come and I must go. Care for them as you always do, and I know you will. No, stay. Stay.

Thank you for being my best and loyal friend. You must stay and I must step out into the sunshine.