The History of the World: Farmer's Rebellion

Image of Sandinista mural, NicaraguaNot one to allow the pawns every move they make, he was aggressive with them, perhaps too aggressive, because eventually he had to leave his home to spend his energies working abroad, safer then he was. His poor mother. But not to worry her little heart. He would soon return, learned and cultured from abroad, yet not foreign to his cause. Schooled in matters, now free from the close eye of the law. He returned home, a facade of normalcy for him and his family. For this is when he built his peasant army. The pawns would no longer make dangerous moves against him when the aggression of the masses was upon them. But the pawns sought to stem the flow of aggression from the source, separate the leadership, cut off the head. The pawns moved to attack the base of his mountain. But they shouldn’t try to move mountains immovable. So instead, they just stayed in wait. Occupied, uninvited and unwanted. And while they waited, they ate all of the bananas. When they left, they made sure to have eaten them all. Greed. That is why we are poor and they are not.

But before they left, they tried to attack the base of the mountain again. Immovable, and the earth shifts to crush our enemies and protect our hero with his cause, in time. Safety beckoning, he left again. And he spoke to the beast with his own words, the Truth he learned when he saw the Light. Maybe this could weaken the beast, enough to allow for some of its puppet strings to snap. But the beast was strong, and it pursued, hunted. Ever thinking itself victorious. The hero escaped every hunt, though, for now, and even managed jabs with each sidestep, goading the beast to incite violence. Every thorn he pricked into the beast’s side reminded the beast that the hero’s battle was far from over, as it had prematurely assumed. The beast’s effort would have to either continue or halt altogether.

Eventually when the beast left, it pretended we were equals. Lost lives, lost humanity, and at the end of it all, we both made scratches on paper to pretend everything was okay. Other allies arose and responded to the artificial papers. “Solidarity,” came the cries from the other side of the board, where every piece made up the whole, and not all pawns worked for the king. Even the pieces who cared not for the peasants and workers, those who would have become the beast had history’s righteousness not slain them, even they paid their respects to us. But the true beast asked opinions with his puppet strings. It put on a puppet show, with the pawns claiming victory for the beast, and claiming the defection of the hero. The beast even went so far as to pull the puppet strings of the hero’s mother. “Please surrender,” she danced, lifelessly. But he never did comply. And since the beast disrespected his mother, now the beast’s blood must redden the land. But not without guns. Guns are the voices of the voiceless. But people can be fickle, and relationships that bring weapons sizzle. And there went the guns. When guns no longer speak their volumes, leaders must speak with their voices. And they lead campaigns. But campaigns can’t be won without generals. The beast’s pawns stole their positions. Compromised. So the hero, without guns, without a voice, without his generals, he led a new campaign. He wrote, to gather support, revitalize the war against the beast and its pawns. So he wrote of his vision, the re-unification of the banana lands, this time victorious where we witnessed others fail. But not our hero. His plan would work.

But not before the beast hunted him again. Wolves, and their like, hunted the hero, chased him abroad to safety once more. But from afar, the hero’s campaign cannot be won like the beast’s, because he controls no pawns.  Only oppressors wield the power of others. And the puppet strings were pulled again. He was betrayed.

The pawns had become followers, leading the hero’s information warfare campaign. But they were weak to the beast, and informed the hero’s position. So hard it must be to hide and remain seen.

So the hero went again, and he wrote from afar. Seeking conciliation of victory, the hero again let his visions speak through his words. Through every sense, he conveyed the Truth, what truly mattered. And as succesful men must do, most of all, he spoke with action, showed that he would not take the fight out of the fight, even with all his words.

Eventually the hero won enough battles that the war was cancelled. A victory for perspectives, but betrayal more to come.

To verify the conditions at hand, the hero asked the people which victor they preferred. And they answered, “one of our own, and not an entertaining puppet.” So the beast left, like a good neighbor that mustn’t overstay its welcome. Blood and artificial victories for all, and for none a good knight. But as all fighters must learn, betrayals are oft when loyalty can be bought. As soon as the hero smiled and shook hands, the pawns stabbed him in the back. But because heroes represent more than themselves, more than anyone, because of visions and ideas of Light or Truth, the hero did not truly die that day, though we did mourn. Though history so rarely rewards the righteous, the hero’s bittersweet legacy remained. In his name his people still claimed victory over the beast. And after another life-span, the hero was finally recognized as the true victor, the man who stood up and spoke the Truth because he saw the Light.

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