So this morning was different. The AK machine gun bursts sounded just like they do in
movies, but I hadn’t heard the PA-HOOF report of tear gas before. All that
mixed in with the sound of brick-sized rocks crashing down on the school roofs
and through the windows made for a strange soundtrack. A toddler wandered out
of the teacher’s housing and was standing between two buildings, too scared to
even cry. I ran over and picked him up—who knew kids could grip so hard.
Students had exploded out of the buildings earlier when an older faction of students had
begun stoning the classrooms- we’re one of the only schools with glass windows
and no one inside felt like taking a shower in their pieces. The senior boys in
the school, suspecting the administration of corruption (unwarranted), held a
bush-court and declared a strike. Why they thought an attack was the best way
to address the problem is beyond me, but ten minutes after that first
campus-wide scream, they were being driven into the bush in front of police
with tear gas launchers and machine guns. The machine guns being fired above
the student’s heads, the tear gas canisters being fired into their chests. The
four police to respond first could hardly hold back the several hundred
students encircling the school though.
I moved building-to-building for the next 30 minutes, depending on which side of campus
was having the worst rock-shower. I had a can of pop in my bag, and my new
little friend and I sipped away while, one by one, teachers were informed their
own houses were being stoned. One by one, they ran into the jungle to hide. The
angry, quick cracks of the guns were the most distant they’d been so far, so I
spent five minutes finding the boy’s house and family then pulled my bike from
where I’d hid it. The riot had moved to a local primary school along my road
and hundreds of kids were streaming out into the bushes as I passed— machine
gun bursts encouraging them to go while answering rocks tore down leaves from
the trees above their heads.
Even as I neared my house deeper inside the village, passing mothers running along the roads
with covered mouths, I could still hear the pops and duller thumps from the
police’s guns and the mob’s cacophony of angry screams from the bush. It’s late
in the afternoon now, and I’m actually back at school to use the solar
panel—glass and rocks are still scattered around, but other than my dog lying
by my bike downstairs, the campus is deserted. A truck of police came from our
district capital today, but the senior boys have promised a strike for the next
three. I’m sure their resolve will dissolve after a night outside of their
houses in the jungle with some of their friends already in jail, but I’m also
sure the timbre of our final exams next week will be dour.
I picked one of the rocks up this morning and I’ve been carrying it around in my bag all day.
I’m not sure what significance it has to me yet, but every time it bumps into
my back I feel a little more discouraged and frustrated.
I hope you’re all doing well and staying safe. 56 days till I’m heading back your way— you’re all
invited to my wedding with the first pizza place that winks at me.
