If...

By Pedro Eler, UN Information Center in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil pedro.eler@unic.org

The sounds at first were blurry.
Dew shakes in the leaves but it’s not morning.
It might as well be blood.

If they were fireworks she would not have known at first, not when they were blurry. But that was long before, back when it still made her jump. After living in the same slum for the past twenty- three years she would not confuse the two of them. Fireworks were like jazz, they had no order and they happened intuitively. But not the sound of guns, not the bullets crossing the sky of Rio de Janeiro. They obeyed rhythm. They came and went and if it didn’t hit the boy, then that was all she could hope for.
You can’t control them, but you learn how to live with it. It happens all the time, everyday, in the slums of Rio de Janeiro.
If it didn’t hit the boy, that was all she could hope for.
If it didn’t hit the boy.
She never told anyone, they would call her crazy and doubt her love. But she had nothing else to do. It was just her and the boy, and if she had do leave to go to work, then who was there to look for the boy? She had once mentioned something about taking him with her but the lady had been quick, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Maria, but it’s too crowded as it is”, and that was it. The lady herself had four kids of her own and there was no room for more.
Maria thought there was room but said nothing because it had been hard to get this job since she could not write or read or hardly speak in a way she thought proper. Better keep quiet and not mess it up. She needed the money. She had no-one. Lose the money and the street is all there is.
So every morning before she left to work at the lady’s house she would leave a plate of food on top of the kitchen table and tell him to watch out and only eat it when it’s time. And to all those people who would call her crazy if they ever knew, she wished they could for a moment know what it was like to kiss your boy goodbye, close the door and lock him in. It was hell. Yet she did it. She had no choice. There were no vacancies in schools or day-care centers for a kid of his age, no grandmother or willing neighbour. The best the old lady next door agreed to do was to listen closely to any shout for help, but that was it, she was busy herself with a bunch of dirty grandchildren from daughters who had to work somewhere to feed the tiny mouths of those unwanted kids.
She spent her days praying that the old lady would never have to hear him cry. Or that if he ever cried she would be able to hear him through the screams of kids of her own.
She prayed.

Maria prayed.
She never knew where the boy was or who he was with. Those slums had good people but not all people were good and she knew it. And she knew that when the police stormed through those tiny streets, especially at night, it did not matter if you were good or bad if you happened to be black.
It was late at night and he was not at home and coming back from work earlier she had seen the police at the foot of the mountain. They had been about to storm the slum. All night long she heard the shooting and the whole time she wondered where he was.
She prayed because there was nothing else to do.
Through brick walls she could not break, God’s eye.
Through narrow alleys she could not pass, God’s eye.
Through jagged barriers she could not climb, God’s eye.
Everywhere else was darkness, but God’s eye could see it all.
She could not guide her boy’s every move, but God’s eye would see him home, make sure that he would not lose his way from that completely different world. He worked there, a bus-boy at a fancy restaurant near Copacabana beach, but he was not from there and she knew that, and had thought that for his own good he should not loose his righteous way. “If’s money you wan’ then you work hard and earn it. Cause there’s a lotta ways to make money in these mountains but hell those are not ways for my boy”, she would tell him over and over again. “Make no mistakes ‘cause there ain’t no room for mistakes if you’re black and poor. Just no room.” She knew that there were ways in those slums that would make him rich.
She also knew so many other boys who had gone those ways, and none of them ever grew older then their mothers.
In the walls of the slum the heat takes place, and the sweat runs down your body. Dirt mingles, mud and skin. It’s not a good place but you make a living; she had always told him that. You make a living. You put food on the table and you pay your bills and you work and come home and you drink some beer and dance some samba and have some kids. But drugs, you never ever touch that stuff, and even if they tell you it will make your rich, you still never ever touch it.
But she was not God, she could not know for sure. And even if he never touched it, she knew that in this world and at this side of the gun barrel, it did make not much of a difference. So she prayed and she looked at the clock and it was almost dawn and he was not home yet.

It was four in the afternoon when Maria looked at the clock on the wall of her boss’s kitchen. She had looked at that clock all day long, while cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing and dusting. She was counting the hours, ten minutes at a time. Now it was time for her to go home.
Everyday, as she stood for a long time at that crowded subway train, her stomach clinched and her heart accelerated, and it got worse and worse as she climbed the streets, walking her way up that slum, getting closer and closer to home. But it all vanished when she opened the door and he was there, a big smile and a larger hug.
She could relish in that relief before it all started again the next day.
But today, as she squeezed her self into a corner of the subway train, stretching up to find some thread of cool air in the midst of all those people and that heat, her heart thumped even faster, chaotic. Her stomach lurched and moved as though it would implode.
She knew something was wrong.

Maria knew something was wrong. The sun was on the brink of rising and her boy wasn’t home. She couldn’t reach his cell, but she could call the restaurant. The phone was right in front of her but fear kept her from dialing the number.

The sun is edging in from the horizon.
Dew becomes fog but it’s not dawn.
It might as well be smoke.

The doors of the subway train opened but fear kept Maria from stepping out. She had left him a plate of food as usual and the lady next door had promised to keep an eye on the boy just in case. But still, he was just a little boy, a baby.
The hordes of people leaving the train forced her into motion and then she couldn’t stop anymore. Before she knew it she was crossing the street and going up the main road that led to the slum.
Then she heard a noise that made her heart stop and her feet start racing.
Sirens.

Sirens.
Maria’s heart stopped beating but her lips started moving. Oh God be with him. Oh God be with him.
God be with the boy.
May your eyes see the boy.
May your hands guide him home.
If…
God I will die.

Oh God be with him
God be with the boy.
May your eyes see the boy.
May your hands keep him safe.
If…
God I will die.

Maria didn’t even make it to the end of the street when strong arms held her back.
“Sorry ma’am, but you can’t go up there”, said a burly voice. She did not take her eyes off the sea of lights and tiles and naked bricks. She kept staring, straight ahead, oblivious to the voice. In the middle of that sea her boy was alone.
Only when the policeman spoke again did she take notice of him.
“It’s too dangerous right now. The shooting is going on strongly. You’ll have to wait.”
She turned to him with bugged eyes, he would never understand. She tried to keep on moving but he threw her back. “What did I tell you? There’s no going up right now! Do you want a bullet in your brain? They’re shooting left and right and it’s too dangerous.”
She could have said something about the boy. But she could just imagine the response. Why not leave him at a day care center? Like she hadn’t tried that before. You had to know life in that place. So many kids, so few day care centers. So she said nothing. Her lips were still but tears rolled down her cheek.

Tears rolled down Maria’s cheek.
She had been kneeling for nearly two hours now. The sirens had subdued, but not the shooting. Shooting, cold rhythm in the heat of war. It was war on those slums.
Casualties.
Innocent lives.
She knew that, had heard about it, had known them.
But not her boy.
If…
God she would die.
There was a soaring pain in her back from kneeling at that hard floor for so long. He was so late now. The sound of every shot reminded her of the sudden existence of an aimless bullet, and all she could hope for was that it crossed the sky and found something that was not her boy on the other side; that he would not be a target.
She feared those bullets more than anything.

Maria feared those bullets more than anything.
The boy was just a baby. He could poke his head out of the window to look for the fireworks.
But they were bullets.
He did not know that.
She knew that there were many other smaller streets and alleys that winded up to her street. Many paths she knew would be unblocked. So she moved fast, silently, unafraid. She could hear the sound of the bullets. They crossed the sky right above her head but to her they seemed so distant. She could only think of her boy.

Maria could only think of her boy.
He should have been home for more then three hours now. She had no more doubts that something had gone wrong. She had called the restaurant and the security guard on duty had told her that no, he left when he normally does, I’m sure nothing is wrong with him ma’am.
But she knew something was wrong and there was no point in pretending anything else.

Maria knew something was wrong, and when she finally came close to her house that weird unruly beating came back to her heart and once again she felt as if her stomach might explode.
The sun was beginning to hide away behind the mountain, tiny little houses covering every inch of ground, a few trees struggling to find room.
Like her, many other people were trying to go back home. They crouched slowly and moved with caution, trying to remain shielded from the rain of bullets. But Maria scampered, undaunted and exhausted, not sure anymore if there was any point in worrying about aimless bullets, if they were or were not something she could fear. All she knew was that she had to get home and make sure that he was alright.
Finally she was there. She had a hard time getting the key in the hole, turning it around without breaking it, all the time screaming the boy’s name. She threw the door open.

Maria threw the door open and left her house. It was dawn already. He had to be somewhere.
She had heard it on the radio all night long. The police had invaded once again, and it had begun in the late afternoon of yesterday. Like always, it had been a war. It was hard to know who the bad guy was and who the good guy was. It was hard to know who to cheer for. All she knew was that both sides could take her boy away from her so fast… so fast. There had been shooting all night long. Some of those aimless bullets could… She knew they could; now she believed they could.
She left the house in a desperate run, but she hadn’t even made it to the end of the street when she fell to the ground. It was almost imperceptible, but the look in her neighbour’s face as she walked towards Maria was what gave it away. It was the look of the bearer of bad news, one that people saw so often in that slum, one that says: “I am sorry but your son is gone.”
It was a horrible sound to hear, but the people who lived in that slum had heard it so many times before they were now jaded. It was a guttural sound, one that came from deep within, from the womb, one that only a mother now aware that one of her children is gone can make. There is more sadness in that one sound than in all the sounds of misery in the world.
They had all heard it before. As Maria buried her head in the dust, tears dropping in the hot ground, they all shook their heads in compassion. It was very, very sad but life has to keep on going.
One more anonymous victim. Faceless, but to those who loved him.

His round face brought the air back to Maria’s lungs.
She didn’t smile, not at first. Or laugh, or hug or kiss him. She just breathed in vigorously. He is fine. He is fine. He is fine.
One step forward and he was in her arms. She kept on breathing hard. He is fine. He is fine. He is fine. She had to tell herself that in order to believe in it. It was a miracle. A touch of divine intervention, of God’s grace. He is fine. He is fine. He is fine.
She clutched him in her embrace, and wondered if she would ever be able to let go again.

No child is crying, God’s might.
Dew rises in the stems but there is no light.
It might as well be hope.

Outside, the slum was still, quiet. No bullets crossed the skies. No sirens or shouts or cries. For a few moments, all you could hear was the faint sound of dew gathering on the leaves of bushes.




Picture: Rio de Janeiro slum, 1986
© UN Photo/Claudio Edinger