The Control Line | Freewrite: 8/28/21 | Prompt: A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

The air was thick with anticipation. For seven days, I waited and watched as drilling, bulldozers, and security forces concentrated in my area of town. Then, silence. Looking out the window of my dilapidated room, I sighed slightly thinking perhaps brilliant minds who devised the means by which their citizens would forever be separated, had suddenly came to their senses.

How naive of me.

The next morning, I woke to renewed activity. I hastily dressed, then ran outside the dilapidated building.

My heart sank.

Apparently, overnight the porous, brick structure with the barbed wire atop had sealed not only my fate, but also that of millions of people who believed they could overcome their situation and remain in the safety of their homes.

I stood at the edge of my street. Figuring I was within a safe distance, I scoured the baseline of the brick structure. From one end to as far as I could see, screams and cries filled my mind. Citizens huddled together grasping at each other gave me shivers.

No good can come of this, I thought. I then remembered other countries who'd erected barriers to keep out certain of its citizens it deemed inappropriate or not assimilating with its long-term goals.

My eyes settled on one particular boy. He clung to the barbed wire fence situated several feet away.

His hands were smeared. His clothes were not in season. I couldn't see the lower half of his body. I surmised his age to be about 10 years, although the weariness in his eyes and somber expression reflected that of an adult contemplating his dire situation in the face of uncertainty in his country.

I expected at any time he'd lift his hand to check out the severity of the bleeding wound on the side of his head. His face looked solemn. The look in his eyes conveyed a feeling of despair. But he didn't say a word. He just stared at me. And the feeling that rushed from my chest and absorbed all he stood for caused my knees to weaken. A heaviness surrounded my eyes, so I blinked to make sure the vision was real.

In the background, I continued to hear heavy equipment at work.

Suddenly, a tug on my pants felt familiar. I turned backward to see small hands grabbing at my waist. Large, brown eyes, attached to a frail, young body maybe thirteen, looked up at me through tears.

"Can you help, please Miss?" It didn't take much for the urgency in his voice to melt my already dwindling resolve.

"What's your name young man?" I was in a hurry now. I didn't have time to waste, as I needed my partner near for support. I couldn't focus on him, but I also couldn't turn away.

"My name is Charunde." I could barely understand what he was asking of me.

I detected something was wrong, as was with so many others in his situation now that the barricade structure was a reality. I knew they worried about their or their family's safety.

However, I asked him to slow down and tell me the problem. I removed a pad from my pocket and jotted down his information. I didn't respond that it would be almost impossible to locate his parents. But I did tell him he would be safe for the time being and not attempt to cross the fence.

He clung to my leg.

I'm used to numerous children approaching me. The citizens knew I was a Westerner. I was a visitor, they said, and didn't understand. But I did because for the past seven months, I'd documented the situation involving the influx of refugees from the next street over and back.

The time was 1961. In February, I got the call.

The country's devastating loss in 1945 had taken its toll. The result of the war now divided up like pieces of a chess pie. The reality pitted east against west, family against family, friend against friend.

Those left behind in the old way of life were stranded with no foreseeable future. Those who managed to scramble to safety a few blocks westward during those years felt lucky to have escaped in time from what they felt was a doomed economy under harsh rule.

Hastily-constructed cinder blocks with barbed wire were only the beginning. How many years will pass before this wrong is righted? I thought. What will become of the millions of citizens left behind? They were torn apart from their other family who made the decision to get out in time. The decision those families thought would better secure their future on the left side of the wall.

I diverted my attention from the small boy tugging at my pants. Instead I stared again at the other young boy clinging to the barbed wire fence. My heart ached for him. However, as a journalist, I was required to stay objective.

But I wondered if he understood why people on the other side of the barrier looked different? Did he understand why his parents stayed behind? Did he understand why the street on the other side of the barrier was full, while his street behind the wall was empty?

Returning to the task at hand, I finished collecting the information for the young boy closest to me.

Then I looked up see whether the other young boy was still at the fence.

I felt as though the barricade was his shield against the unknown. Behind him was the familiar, and perhaps hope.

I felt a place devoid of the ability to lie one's head in the cool comfort of the shadows without hearing words of anger and discord, words of commands; and words of agony and pain.

Finally, I turned to my cameraman. "What do you see, Derek?" He stiffened at my probe meant to ensure he was taking it all in.

Knowing I had no patience for anyone who couldn't appreciate the significance of what was was being witnessed, he said proudly, "This is a historic moment in humanity. Can't wait for your prize-winning report if they'll allow an interview. Otherwise, how will you feel if their story can't be documented?"

He looked into my face. I could tell he was puzzled by my reaction as I turned to face Charunde, then point in the direction of the other young boy clinging to the fence.

I took a second before responding, merely saying, "a picture is worth a thousand words!"

^{Image used with permission of contest owner}