out of the starting blocks we ran—not towards something but away from something. By now the cloud at the top of the tree had realized where their family and friends were and joined in the pursuit.
We hadn’t followed a specific trail, so it was a full-speed tilt through trees and bushes, the branches scraping at us while we dodged the trunks. I bounced off one, then another, clinging tight to the hive—a source of food for a family with little. We came out of the trees and into the open, our bare feet pumping up and down like pistons, our little legs a blur. Behind—and with—us came a horde of bees. Sting after sting after sting after sting. I was trying to swat them, but it didn’t work well with the hive in my hands and bees still pouring out of it.
Art was ahead of me, and we both knew where we were going. A large puddle—deep enough to swim in—was there for the cattle to drink from. Without hesitation we jumped headlong into the water, me still clutching the hive for all it was worth, and held our breath underwater. The bees couldn’t come down, but with the enveloping water and the still beneath the surface came the catch-up of the nerves—and the realization that my body was stinging like it was on fire. There wasn’t a part of me that didn’t feel like the bees were still leeching their poison into me.
I held my breath until I couldn’t anymore, hearing Art thrashing around beside me. I surfaced, only to spit my air out and grab another breath. At the same time I caught a glimpse of the sky around me—dotted with black and yellow bees like stars in the daytime. I didn’t need to be up longer than a second to realize they were still angry. Going back under I held my breath longer, my body fighting against the need to surface.
Several times later—finally—the bees had calmed down enough to leave. I left my head above the surface and waited for Art to come back up. Still stinging from the swarm we’d faced, his face broke into a smile the second he came up.
“You got it?” he asked.
I held up the hive, now soggy but still good, and smiled—13 bee stings were a small price to pay for our sweet loot.
* * *
When my forefathers arrived in Paraguay from Russia, they were given a tent, an ax, a spade, and an ox to share with another family. Given to my grandparents by MCC (Mennonite Central Committee), these tools made life possible, though certainly not simple. It was a meagre beginning, and it set the tone for the years that were to come, including my childhood.
Paraguay was never my family’s destination, fleeing from Russia due to religious persecution. Health concerns made Paraguay the only option available. They would take anybody that could breathe. Dad’s family had aimed for Canada but missed by a few thousand miles. Nevertheless, we were in a country that didn’t care what we worshipped or who we were, and it was now home.
With the tools they were given, my grandparents and their families set to becoming agricultural farmers. This included growing peanuts, cotton, and a small amount of grain. Agricultural farming is very dependent on the weather—particularly rain. The landscape of the Chaco (our territory in Paraguay) is mostly flat, like the prairies, with open fields and meadows. The natural grass (bitter grass that the cattle and horse can’t eat) grows three or four feet high, surrounded by bush. There are very few forests but a significant amount of dense bush. The roads were mud, subject to the dustiness of the dry winter season and the sogginess of the rain. Depending on their condition at the time of travel, they could make getting somewhere very difficult.
In winter the temperature dips colder but rarely below zero Celsius, the main difference being the lack of rain. Dust and sand whip up in columns and clouds, getting into every nook and cranny. The houses aren’t sealed, but the northerly winds would break any seal anyway, scattering the dust and sand in a layer that cakes just about everything. It provides a strange contrast, because the land is often green and yet suffers from significant drought. It’s this drought that has earned the Chaco the nickname “Green Hell,” a gritty yet accurate representation of some of the difficulties of the land.
With the dependency on the weather to co-operate, farming was not simple. Over time most farmers switched over to raising cattle. For my family this was on a very small scale with a small margin of success. The difficulty in growing up in this environment laid the groundwork for my understanding of what poverty is. We grew up without treats, with (hopefully) one pair of shoes at a time, and several instances when we were forced near to going hungry. I have a very vivid and clear recollection of the closest we ever came to not having food.
* * *
The strong northerly winds whipped into our home, and I coughed because of the dust. I had just come from outside, but it was too cold to remain out there for long. Though our house wasn’t insulated, at least it was a partial shelter from the wind. It was quiet in our house, which wasn’t uncommon, but something about it felt strange.
I went towards my parents’ room and was about to barge in when I fell silent. Thankfully my bare feet were quiet on the ground. I stood just out of sight, listening.
Mom was in the room, Dad, somewhere else. She was quiet, her voice hushed and quiet. When I listened closer, I realized what she was doing.
Praying.
Frozen in time, I wasn’t sure whether I should bolt and pretend I never heard or stand and listen. For better or worse, I chose to listen. The words were quiet and quick, and there was emotion laced in with them. Was she crying?
It must be something big, I thought. I couldn’t tell the words apart, and I didn’t want to be caught. At any moment a sibling could come walking by, and the game would be over—even though it had been accidental.
I heard the telltale sounds of Dad coming home and knew I had to move. Dancing away quietly, I stayed out of sight as he came into the house. He went straight to Mom, and I couldn’t help but creep closer.
“Did you get any?” she asked.
“No,” Dad responded. From my vantage point I could see him put his hands on her shoulders from behind. He stroked her arms, and she continued to cry softly.
“Nothing?”
“We have no more credit. We haven’t produced enough.” I knew now what he was talking about. We didn’t really deal in money all that much in the settlement. Instead, a running tab of plus or minus would be kept at the store. When we had peanuts or other produce to sell, our number would go up. Then when we bought, it would go down. Apparently it was so far down that they wouldn’t give us any more bread, any more food.
We have no food, I realized. Disappearing from their door, I went to the kitchen (a separate building) and decided to check it out for myself. There was some sugar but no flour. Without flour, you can’t make bread. It was winter, and we weren’t harvesting anything. We have no food, I realized. Fear gripped me and hit me harder than any of the north winds ever had.
I heard something and had to look. Hiding beside the door, I saw Dad heading to the barn. His head was hanging low, and his stride was stunted, and—I wasn’t sure how to describe it. Somehow he looked small, as if the weight of the world was pressing his shoulders down into the ground.
Mom hadn’t left the house, and as soon as Dad made it to the barn I made my move. Scrambling out of the house and running full tilt to the other side of the barn, I moved into position to watch. With his back to me, he headed to where we kept the horse food. It was called kafir, a grain grown specifically for horses. Its grey-white cob wouldn’t do for human consumption.
But—what was he doing?
He
