The Boy in the Van

August walks through the aisle of extraordinary photos taken from different lenses but taken by the same gifted eyes. Once she dreamed for her works to be a part of this very distinguished Gallery and now here she is. One of her works was chosen to be here after being recognized from winning an international competition. All her hard work paid off.

“Mommy. Look! Why is that boy smiling and crying at the same time? Is he crazy?” A little girl asked her mother as she points at the next display. August couldn’t see what the girl was pointing so she went back to the photo of the majestic lion with its mouth wide open at the camera. It makes one wonder if the photographer lived to tell the tale.

“Oh hush.” The girl’s mother says. “That boy is a hero.”

August wondered how the woman knew. Ah, yes. That photo has been there for almost two years now. 

“But he’s just a boy!” The girl says, not believing her mother.

“Oh hush.”

Curious now, August stood at the far end, standing against the wall as people gathered around a certain photo. It was, amongst others, the only black and white one. It was simple— uninteresting even but the more she look at it, the more her attention is held. It’s giving her an odd sense of deja vu. August studied the photo, eyes scanning through the details, the style of the photographer but nothing seems to stand out. The subject, a boy about ten years old smiles widely with tears streaming down his face. He was smiling so big that his irises were barely visible.

Soon, she found herself in the middle of strangers, staring at a stone beneath a photo. It read:

   The Boy In The Van

   Summer

August can’t help but smile. Indeed, it was a boy sitting inside a van. Why is he crying? Those men standing by the door looked like soldiers. Surely they won’t hurt him right? 

August frowned. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes from that boy. Perhaps it was those eyes, innocent but held so much emotion that is beyond the limits of the photo’s color. That forced smile, his left hand holding tightly at the soldier’s left hand makes it seem like he wanted to run but couldn’t. Still, despite everything he was smiling like everything is okay. But what makes him smile through all of it?

The sound of a man clearing his throat startled everyone, but not August who quickly found the source— a tiny little speaker above the frame of the photo.

“Hello, everyone.” A man says, his voice deep and raspy like a sandpaper brushing against a hard surface. He sounded awkward, the nervousness is noticeable enough that it made some of the audience laugh. “So, uh, you’re looking at the photo with the title The Boy In The Van.” He took a deep breath, eliciting yet another bunch of chuckles.

“So uh, believe it or not, that photo is taken by an seven-year-old.” The way he said it held an obvious pride. 

“A seven year old? Sure looks like it.” Said by an untrained eye. Indeed it look simply, uninteresting, even, had August seen it anywhere but at that very gallery. Surely it held something more than it shows?

August looked at her, watched and saw that it was almost nine. She has a flight to catch. She promised her father she’ll be home to celebrate her mother’s birthday with him. She turned around, pushing herself in between people when the man spoke again.

“I know it isn’t anything special. Any boy can sit in a van. Any boy can smile while crying. But not every boy is taken against his will to fight for a country whose enemies lies amongst them- a boy, who couldn’t even hurt a fly and sleep without the lights off. Yes, this boy, only thirteen, was forcefully taken from his home.”

August’s halted. There goes the reason why this photo was taken. Of course! It has to be sad and tragic otherwise, would people care about something so mundane?

“That boy was my friend. My comrade-my brother and this picture was the greatest treasure he owns. He kept this at the breast pocket of his stained filled uniform, clutching it with his bloodied hands as he took his last breath. He asked me to deliver this photo to the person who took it.” 

August gasp. Her heart bled for that child, having had his childhood taken from his very hand. 

The man sighed. “It was impossible. How could I look for someone I don’t even know? But it was my friend’s last wish and I ought to accomplish it. Looking for Summer brought me to a realization on how much I know my friend.” He paused, a few seconds past. “His family was not in the country anymore. They fled just a year after his mother’s death— his mother—“ He paused, seemingly unable to continue. 

August could see it flashing before her eyes like a scene from an unfortunate movie; a woman knocking on every door, begging for help— for a tiny amount of compassion for her young child. One was already taken. She cannot let anything happen to the only child she has left. But mercy is not something that exist at a time where everyone is afraid of tomorrow. Shattered by the lack of power, the woman was bound to get hurt by the shards of an already broken heart. A woman, walking alone— each step taking her closer to an abyss of darkness where men devoid of morality and whose humanity was long buried in years of violence filled with sorrows and uncertainty. That night, she not only lost hope but also her dignity as a woman— a person. Not even the arms of his helpless, loving husband could chase away the shadows of evil. The husband, embittered with his incapacity to give justice to his wife drowned in a pool of repressed anger that he couldn't blame his wife when she gave in. With no pillars to hold the house, the light dimmed and dimmed until it burn out. 

It was, until his lights were gone that he finally see what he had lost and cannot lose anymore. No wife, no son, the husband promised atop the grave of his wife that he himself had dug, that he will protect their only daughter in every way he can. 

He did. He took a risk- one last shot to freedom and boarded a boat. No matter that they were hungry and penniless with nothing but the clothes they have. What’s important is they are now looking at a better future. He worked, day and night until his nothing became something. That something became everything to the little girl, who had forgotten what she had all witnessed and succeed. She was, as some would say, ‘a moment catcher’. The talent of which her eyes see more than most people could, catch it and keep it safe within a piece of paper to be seen for ever— but never to be repeated ever again.

Silence followed.

No one spoke, no one even made the slightest sound. Everyone waited with bated breath to what he was going to say. He was a horrible storyteller. There were tons of mistakes, things that should be and shouldn’t be but his sincerity made up for all of it. August turned around, about to leave as the man went on to finish the story.

“This very photo, is what kept him alive for over a decade. The only thing he has that reminds him of home— of the importance of all his sufferings. He didn’t regret going away to keep his sister safe and his mother from a terrible heartache. Had he stayed and let the soldiers took his sister away instead, he would never lasted as he did.”

The man went on with the story, and August did not only hear it all but see it. Perhaps, being a director is so engraved in her soul that she could envision everything as if it was happening before her. 

The boy, having grown into a man of honor- a soldier of dignity would go on to help every woman, men and children as much as he can. He gave more than he received. “My friend, He would always say that he had nothing to begin with but he was given the ability to give. It never mattered to him the he lose more than he gain. If not hundreds, there are thousands of people he helped change life even though he couldn’t change his own. He may not be the hero that are written in books, he still is. Are all heroes ever documented? No matter, having less people know does not invalidate his kindness. That is, the story of the boy in the van.”

The rest of what he’s saying faded as August nears the exit. She was almost out the door when she had that nagging feeling that someone is watching her. She looked around, and saw people busy with their own lives. Maybe it’s just a hallucination. Maybe it wasn’t even real. Maybe— she froze. From the second floor of the gallery, August saw no more than a silhouette of a man leaving silently. Still, she caught sight of that red scarf. August’s took in a sharp breath as her chest squeezed, and her temple tingles with that tell—tale sign of a coming headache— a visitor she constantly had when they emigrated. It has long faded, haven’t come in years. Why now?

“Are you okay? Does your head hurts?” A concerned male voice asked.

August turned, hearing what he said. “How did you—“ There stood a man, with a cane on his left hand and a scar in his chin. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain black tee shirt under an army green bomber jacket that has seen better days. The intensity of which he stare at her with those striking blue eyes caught August in a rush of sporadic heartbeats. 

“Hi, I’m Cody.” He reach out a hand, not once letting go of her gaze.

It was a stranger. August knew better than to associate herself with people she didn’t know. Still, she took it, justifying her actions as ‘politeness’. “August.”

“Your name should be Summer since you were born in August.” He smiles, that boyish grin followed making him look several years younger. She liked the way his eyes crinkled, for a moment, those blues looking clear and free of clouds.

She chuckled. “You think?” August wince, her temple aching. Cody was quick enough to hold her arm and steady her. He was invading her personal space, she know-she’s aware but a voice rang inside her head. ‘I’ll call you summer anyway because you are our sunshine.’ A boy says, his face blurred but his voice clearly echoing in her head.

“Deep breaths. You’ll be okay.” Cody told her in a soothing voice.

Aware of how close they’ve become, August took her arm and a step backward. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” 

He tilted his head, unconvinced. “Sure. By the way, here. Can you please hold this for me?” He handed her a piece of paper.

August stared at the audacity of the stranger but then, the slightly crumpled old photo caught her attention. It was-she gasp. It was no doubt the original photo of the boy in the van. When she look around, Cody was gone. August’s chest tightened. It was, she remember now, the very first photo she ever took.