Posted in Extempore

Twelve Years A Slave

A black man was born free but abducted to be a slave – inhumanely, illegally.

The man was redeemed from the wrath of slavery, rescued after a long period of wait for the one white man who truly understood the truth of right and wrong. 

He was set free.

While a white man helped him realise his birth rights of freedom, many other white men were waking up around the country to fight for the cause of freedom and liberty.

Such was the spirit of these enlightened men that they were ready to war with their own brothers for the sake of what was right.

The whole nation declared war between the north and the south, the righteous and the unrighteous, the humane and the inhumane.

He was called for his duty to the country along with all civil men for this was a war for their future – their America.

Flesh, blood and pain was not new for him. Not anymore. Despite being born into what would otherwise be considered a normal household, life’s adventures had him see the worst a house full of hatred and despise can see. As a slave, he was used to men treating other men as owned objects and livestock – that could be tamed, enslaved and even killed. He was used to the worst evil in the hearts of men that could kill another man with a family and a wife, whilst returning to his own, at night.

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So when he was called out to a similar but much largely scaled inhumane treatment of men at the hands of men – he did not back down. He fought the war as a soldier of the right. He killed as many men as he could and saved as many as he could.

The war ended. The pristine beauty of what is Right could not be famished in value even after being crushed beneath the feet of those blinded by unrighteous power.

He returned to his family after yet another lapse of time – once again filled with horrid memories of bare flesh, spilt blood and soul stirring pain.

He returned this time, though, not a victim but also a murderer.

If the last time his dignity was smothered, it was the tender thread of humanity in him that was plucked at. He returned murderer of his own men.

But while he heard many of his comrades succumbing to the sorrowful loss of this thread of humanity within; he refused to follow suit.

For he was a wise man after all. He knew the loss of dignity was but apparent. He knew the snapped thread of humanity in him was but a delusion. He was a warrior of the Right cause – the cause of equanimity and sovereignty for all, irrespective of their colour, gender or any other superficial discrimination. The right to live free, die free, love free. The right to the benevolence of Mother Nature in all its splendour. The right to create a home, a poem or an airplane – whatever the capability of the individual. This was the truest fight, the larger dream that had to be realised even in the face of mountainous nightmares of the present.

So he did his duty just as detached to his feigned self that carried a dignity and or had a fragile thread of humanism as he was made to compromise his dignity or murder a brother. He knew it was this ‘self’ and the ‘ego’, ‘power’ and ‘ownership’ associated to it – that was at the root of the enemy on the other side in both the cases. It was this shallow waters of the self that was being fought in favour of the deeper values of righteousness.

For he knew, the purpose of the war being fought was much greater than him or anybody individually. It was the greater purpose, the greatest purpose.

And so he returned to his life – not in guilt of having killed nor of having lost his dignity at the hands of men who enslaved him. He returned a hero having won his greatest battle adventure. He returned victorious, having lost and gained along the way but knowing victory. He gained more, much more than what he lost for he gained the truth.

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