A monk, sling bag over one shoulder, stood in line behind a tattooed youth and Bettie, who seemed too old to be pregnant. Policemen stared from behind barbed-wires. A nurse was seated at the checkpoint, ticking off names of casualties who had visitors. The Constable ran his eyes down the queue. After the monk, there was a couple carrying kids on their hips, a dignified looking man, two younger monks whispering to each other, then several other persons. Bettie, searched and cleared, walked towards two medical tents, sandwiched between an ambulance and an armored carrier parked under a leafy tree.
The tattooed boy stepped up to the policemen on duty. The otherwise deserted road was littered with torn protest banners, broken glass, remnants of fires and rubber bullets. Tear gas still stung the eyes.
‘This never ends’ the Constable thought. ‘Why do spiritual persons resort to protests and violence?’
But is it committing violence when you blow yourself up? Or set yourself on fire? This is where terrorism originates, if you believed the government – giving up everything for one’s beliefs.
The monk was being patted down by a policeman while another picked through his bag. The Constable couldn’t think of anything he’d willingly die for but admired those who did. Only, as a policeman, he had to clean up the mess each time…
His thoughts were shattered by a deafening shockwave, flooring him. Disoriented and frightened, he struggled to get up. Policemen and everyone in the queue lay scattered, in shock but alive. The explosion did not originate there. The constable looked back towards the tents. One of the ambulances was now obscured by venomous, black smoke from which yellow tongues of flame flicked ravenously.
It wasn’t a monk this time. It was the pregnant looking woman. Bettie.