Disclaimer: Lawsuits are expensive...I don't own ER or any of its trademarks and subsequently make no profit from this.
Author's Note: I couldn't resist doing a little Luka stream of consciousness from the Congo. I might expand this into a longer work about Luka's (and maybe Carter's) adventures in the Congo. It all depends on what happens in the season finale and your input, so please, read and review!
Rating: PG-13
Throwing Shadows
by Meg Kenobi
It doesn't matter where you are. The metallic entity of Chicago, the hollow streets of Vukovar, or the throbbing, wet jungles of the Congo. All the same. Always the same, anywhere humans breed their numbers and breed their hate there is killing, poverty, sickness, war and injury. In the deep recesses of the Congo, they can't feed, clothe, house or medicate their children. And yet, they have guns. They tell you you're safe when you take any of these mission trips, but what a joke. The trip's coordinators can't control the warring tribes anymore than they can control the coming monsoons. There is a sense of foreboding here. Lies have been told; no one is safe. The fighting is growing closer. Our efforts are not appreciated. Hostilities could turn - - or just get too close. It's all rather familiar, in a way. I don't fear what could come, though. It's odd. Mortality has lost its sway over my being.
I make my way towards the compound, pushing through a throng of writhing, dark little bodies. They gather around and pull at my clothes with hollow, emaciated limbs. "American!" they cry in shrill voices, imploring me for alms. It is the only word of English most of them know, but it is sufficient. Ironic that after being the damned foreigner for so long, I am an American to them. But I am pale and foreign; by definition rich and American.
The compound is temporary and roughly hewn. Already it is yielding to the creeping, invasive growing things that are the Congo. From the other doctors I have heard that once the rains come, the structure will fall. Things are wrong here. The planning was bad. We are not safe. Inside the compound, though, it doesn't really matter. More dark children, but men and women too. They are all half starved and some, though none of us will admit, are plagued by sicknesses for which we have no name.
"Wenda Mbote, Tata Kovac," calls Tata Nbada, our interpreter. Here I am glad to know French. It may have only earned me trouble with Nicole, but here it is vital. The native speech is nearly beyond comprehension. Your accents and intonation are the difference between five or six meanings to each and every word. At least most here know some French and for the rest Tata Nbada can translate Congolese to French. Words are so vital here as we dispense our precious supplies. Among one another, though, words are kept so few. What is there to discuss? The desperation? Our imminent failure? No, better silence among these alien people.
Everything is so distant here. It's hard to remember what was important about my generous pay check, nice apartment, phallic car. Everything warm and comfortable is conveniently removed. But the things I wanted to fade are vivid. Abby should have dimmed, she should have bleed into the smear of light of all I left behind. But she is here with me. She is echoed in the distant ocher sun, the infallible beauty of the land. Her slight form is the ache in my empty arms. She nestles in my mind's eye, throwing shadows on a strange world, throwing shadows on foreign skies.
Author's Note: I couldn't resist doing a little Luka stream of consciousness from the Congo. I might expand this into a longer work about Luka's (and maybe Carter's) adventures in the Congo. It all depends on what happens in the season finale and your input, so please, read and review!
Rating: PG-13
Throwing Shadows
by Meg Kenobi
It doesn't matter where you are. The metallic entity of Chicago, the hollow streets of Vukovar, or the throbbing, wet jungles of the Congo. All the same. Always the same, anywhere humans breed their numbers and breed their hate there is killing, poverty, sickness, war and injury. In the deep recesses of the Congo, they can't feed, clothe, house or medicate their children. And yet, they have guns. They tell you you're safe when you take any of these mission trips, but what a joke. The trip's coordinators can't control the warring tribes anymore than they can control the coming monsoons. There is a sense of foreboding here. Lies have been told; no one is safe. The fighting is growing closer. Our efforts are not appreciated. Hostilities could turn - - or just get too close. It's all rather familiar, in a way. I don't fear what could come, though. It's odd. Mortality has lost its sway over my being.
I make my way towards the compound, pushing through a throng of writhing, dark little bodies. They gather around and pull at my clothes with hollow, emaciated limbs. "American!" they cry in shrill voices, imploring me for alms. It is the only word of English most of them know, but it is sufficient. Ironic that after being the damned foreigner for so long, I am an American to them. But I am pale and foreign; by definition rich and American.
The compound is temporary and roughly hewn. Already it is yielding to the creeping, invasive growing things that are the Congo. From the other doctors I have heard that once the rains come, the structure will fall. Things are wrong here. The planning was bad. We are not safe. Inside the compound, though, it doesn't really matter. More dark children, but men and women too. They are all half starved and some, though none of us will admit, are plagued by sicknesses for which we have no name.
"Wenda Mbote, Tata Kovac," calls Tata Nbada, our interpreter. Here I am glad to know French. It may have only earned me trouble with Nicole, but here it is vital. The native speech is nearly beyond comprehension. Your accents and intonation are the difference between five or six meanings to each and every word. At least most here know some French and for the rest Tata Nbada can translate Congolese to French. Words are so vital here as we dispense our precious supplies. Among one another, though, words are kept so few. What is there to discuss? The desperation? Our imminent failure? No, better silence among these alien people.
Everything is so distant here. It's hard to remember what was important about my generous pay check, nice apartment, phallic car. Everything warm and comfortable is conveniently removed. But the things I wanted to fade are vivid. Abby should have dimmed, she should have bleed into the smear of light of all I left behind. But she is here with me. She is echoed in the distant ocher sun, the infallible beauty of the land. Her slight form is the ache in my empty arms. She nestles in my mind's eye, throwing shadows on a strange world, throwing shadows on foreign skies.