童年時代的戰火硝煙

It was around seven o’clock that morning when my mother walked into the bedroom I shared with my little sister to wake us up. I had just turned six years old and the little one was two and a half. We were living in 1)Benin， where my father had taken a teaching position a few months earlier.

As soon as I opened my eyes that day， I could hear gun shots coming from outside. From the look on my mother’s face， I knew something bad was happening and that whoever was shooting wasn’t hunting for food， and wasn’t that far from our home.

The three of us then quickly crossed the dining room of the third floor apartment where we lived to meet my father in the master bedroom. Closing the door behind us， we proceeded to sit on the floor between the bed and the door， and to wait. The window was wide open， with a

2)screen covering one half. We could clearly hear gunshots resonating on a regular basis outside in the morning air. We knew we were surrounded and that whatever it was， it was the real deal.

After a couple of hours， and with no signs that the shootings outside would stop， my mother attempted to go into the kitchen， only a few feet away， to get the family， and especially us children， something to eat. However， the shooters， who hadn’t given us any time for breakfast， saw the door move， and they immediately proceeded to shoot in the bedroom， i.e. at us! And， not a chance that they would have shot through the screen—they shot the glass， which flew everywhere in thousands of tiny pieces. We screamed， we cried， we waited some more…

The shooting went on for about three hours. To us， it had seemed like an 3)eternity， and the bedroom now looked like a 4)war zone. Aside from the broken windows and the glass everywhere， there was the damage done by the bullets after they broke the glass and entered the walls. Over the 5)headboard of the bed， there were two holes， each 8 to 12 inches in diameter， where two of the bullets had found their respective destinations.

A few months later， the four of us safely returned to North America， having spent less than one year in Benin.

Following the 9#8226;11 events， and when the US

6)retaliations were 7)imminent， I thought a lot about Benin and the events of January 16， 1977. I wanted to understand what had happened that day and I wanted to know why my family had been， even for a short period of time， in the middle of a war zone.

Unable to find much information on the Internet， I turned to the Benin Embassy in Washington， where a nice gentleman took the time to chat with me about the events of 1977.

Benin’s political past is， 8)to say the least，

9)tumultuous， involving a series of political and army 10)coups. But， in short， in October of 1972， the government of Benin was overthrown with one of those coups， and 11)Major Mathieu Kérékou seized power. Meanwhile， a group of 12)mercenaries， desired to take control of Benin’s government and， likely financed by other political powers， organized themselves outside of the country (in other African nations and in Europe) and they planned the event of January 16， 1977. That morning， they entered the country via the airport， and from what I understand， the building where my family lived simply happened to be on the road that goes from the airport to the government’s central office.

On January 16th 1977， Benin’s national army defeated the mercenaries， however， many lives were lost on both sides and many civilians died that morning， merely for having been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Meanwhile， every time I hear about a war， any war， my thoughts turn to the civilians who inevitably get caught between the lines of fire. I think about the families who might be isolated in their homes， scared， unarmed， and trapped like rats with nowhere to go. I especially think about the children who may be old enough that they’ll remember (if they survive)， but who are too young to understand or to participate. I know how scared they are.

When I hear about the millions of Afghan

refugees and the thousands of civi-lians already dead in this war of terrorism， I sometimes feel like a child again， in that I feel powerless and I wish I could make it all stop and go away. But while I can’t do that， I can hope that my story will be yet another

reminder to all of us， that the civilians being

terrorized and killed (on both sides) are not mere

“13)collateral damage.” They are people like you and I and it makes no difference where on earth they live because it’s never their war.

那天早上七點鐘左右，媽媽走進我和妹妹的臥室把我們叫醒。那年我剛六歲，我妹妹只有兩歲半。我們一家住在貝寧，幾個月前爸爸接受了一份教職，到這里來工作。

那天我一睜開眼睛，就聽到外面傳來槍聲。從媽媽臉上的表情可以知道，恐怖的事情發生了，那些絕不是狩獵的槍聲，而且開槍的人離我們家不遠。

我們三人立即快速穿過飯廳（當時我們住在那棟房子的三樓），沖進主臥房與爸爸會合。我們關上房門，然后一起坐在大床和房門之間的地板上，等待槍聲停止。房間的窗戶敞開著，紗窗遮擋了一半的窗戶。我們可以清楚地聽到，槍聲每過一會兒就在外面清晨的空氣中轟響。我們明白，我們被包圍了，不管他們要干什么，反正這次可是來真的。

就這樣過了幾個小時，外面的槍聲還沒有停下來的跡象，媽媽試圖溜進只有幾步之遙的廚房，好拿些食物給全家人，尤其是給孩子們吃。但是，這些槍手不但不給我們吃早餐的機會，還一看到房門動就立即繼續向臥室開火，也就是朝我們開槍！而且，他們不射紗窗，而是朝玻璃窗開火，玻璃碎片四處飛射。我們尖叫哭喊，只有繼續等待……

掃射持續了大約三個小時。對我們來說，時間像凝固了一樣，而臥室現在就像一個戰場。窗戶破碎，玻璃四散，除此之外，子彈破窗而入，在墻壁留下累累彈痕。床頭板的上方有兩個大洞，直徑均約為八到十二英寸，洞里分別嵌著一顆子彈。

幾個月后，我們一家四口安全返回北美，在貝寧居住的時間還不到一年。