Eating Fire and Drinking Water

I am presently reading a book recommended by my bestfriend's wifey. Its Eating Fire and Drinking Water by Arlene Chai.

Im halfway through the book and it has taken my breath away.

to give you guys a taste of what the book is about here is the blurb posted on the back and a striking passage.

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Blurb:

My name is Clara Perez, I am a reporter.

This is the story of my country whose people eat fire and drink water, and of an oppressive regime whose decline is foretold by the singing of a river.

it is about how one man's act of kindness changes the lives of many and of a woman who bleeds from the wounds of Christ and a man whose name is Pride; a leader corrupted by power, a colonel who is an artist of pain, and a charismatic young man who dies only to live again.

And it is about me.

For on that fateful morning of the fire when I went to Calle De Leon in search of one story. I found myself caught up in another. I discovered my history.

But to learn how two tales become one, you must follow me back to that burning street, to where it all began.

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"Watch, Laslo. Observe human nature. See how Sophia, even while she is robbed of her wholeness or what humans call dignity, continues to fight for self-preservation. As if it is possible to live when one is no longer whole. it is a strange human characteristic.

I have seen it many times. In other circumstances, of course. I have seen men who have lost, say a finger, two fingers, still beg to live. A hand, two hands, am arm, maybe a leg, still begging to live.

It makes for an interesting case study, you know, when you slice through flesh, cutting deeper, removing bits here, parts there, the subject begs ... yes, begs to be allowed to live.

You can remove so much of what makes up the human body, of what defines a human being or human life - and i refer to the physical as well as the psychological - and still the subject stubbornly insists on continuing his or her existence. The subject believes it is possible to go on living inspite of a less than perfect state. The subject is totally lacking in the understanding that life must be lived whole for it is to be lived as art. When one is no longer perfect, no longer whole in all dimensions, one makes a mockery of life.

Which poses an interesting topic of debate: where should one draw the line between human life and a lesser form of life? and is the life of this less than perfect human specimen worth prolonging? An ethical and relevant question, dont you think? It is something I have pondered on many occasions

I have one other question: who is to make the decision of whether life should be granted or denied? The imperfect subject or another party whose vision is not marred?"

And so the colonel went on as his men continued with their business and the windowless room began to fill with the smell and sweat and of sex and of blood. And through it all the sound of Rachmaninoff's music and the sound of the colonel's musings reached Laslo who could only howl into a piece of soiled handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.

When at last the men finished with Sophia, the colonel rose from his seat. The men drew back and watched with interest as he approached the cot with the rumpled sheet where the woman now lay whimpering, curled up like a fetus. They watched with bated breath knowing the best the unexpected, was yet to come. This was the colonel after all. They watched him closely as he gazed at the woman. Watched him bend close to whisper in her ear.

"Sophia..."

Her eyes flew open on hearing his voice. She drew a quick breath.

In a soft, gentle voice, he said to her, "Tell me your heart's desire, Sophia, tell me, do you wish to live?"

Laslo, mouth gagged, tried to speak. The colonel glanced at him, saying, "Listen carefully Laslo, I am about to reveal the truth of my words."

He spoke to her once more. "Sophia, tell me your heart's desire."

In the silence of that room, Sophia's words came softly but clearly. "I dont... want ... to ... die."

The colonel slowly shut his eyes, savoring her words, and a smile formed on his lips. He opened his eyes and looked across at Laslo. "How interesting, Laslo, that Sophia should define living as not dying. You see, once reduced to this imperfect state the desire to live is nothing more than a fear of dying."

He bent over Sophia once more. His voice suddenly stern, he passed judgement on her. "You are no longer perfect Sophia."

Then shaking his head gently, his voice filled with regret, he said to her, "I am afraid I cannot let you live."

Gently, like a lover, he gathered Sophia's hair away from her face. As one man raised her head, and the others pinned her down, the colonel parted her long hair in equal parts, on either side of her head. With graceful movements, he combed out the tangled strands with his long fingers. Then, he carefully twined the two sections around her neck, making them cross and cross again, pulling tighter each time, until at last Sophia understood.

She tried to scream or perhaps beg once more or to gasp for breath to last her forever, it is not clear, for the colonel, at the exact moment the music soared, pulled the ends of her hair, pulled them so tight that Sophia's eyes widened and her body for a brief moment went rigid before slowly letting go, letting go of life, as the music died...