The Log

The Log sits outside the cottage door. I’ve been splitting sticks on it for over three years or so now. Ever since i returned home. The top is con-caved and soft from the constant chopping. Dozens of fires that heat the old house have started their life on this piece of wood.

It sits outside in all weathers. Rain falls on it. Snow rests on it and from time to time when it appears, the Irish sun warms it.

It’s nearing the end now. No longer solid enough to create enough resistance to the thwack of the axe. Unpredictable. Dangerous even. I’ll get another one. Cut this one up with the chainsaw. Burn it. Sure, it’s only a piece of wood.

The monsoon was in full effect. Humidity and rain battling to see which could soak you first. As my granny used to say “you’re not made of sugar”. I’d be fine. It was uncomfortable, but in the current surroundings I had little to complain about.

I had been in Cox’s Bazar for a few days now documenting the arrival of hundreds of thousands of Rohingya fleeing the genocide across the border in Myanmar. Biblical. That’s the only word that I can use to describe the scene. The largest collection of displaced people on the planet arriving in waves.

Some trekking for weeks through mountainous jungles. Scores succumbing to injury’s inflicted by government backed forces in their homeland or simply drowning in the Bay of Bengal as they fled in overcrowded boats.

The biggest issue working in the humidity and rain is damage to your tools. Cameras simply do not function well in this environment. Of the four cameras I had with me only one was currently working and my lenses were drifting in and out of consciousness. 

No sanitation meant that inside the black and orange tarpaulin jungle, water and the heavy red clay was being mixed by countless bare feet to form a rancid adobe. 

The hastily erected shelters offered little comfort. Water simply ran under the sides. This made it impossible to sit anywhere. The inside was wet and the outside was wetter. If your patch of real estate was at the bottom of a hill you were doubly fucked.

I distracted myself from the rain and shit by shooting some images of a wee boy roughly the same age as my son peering out from a hut. Today I was shooting life inside the camps while my colleagues were watching out for new arrivals and the chaotic aid distribution sites. 

 A man appeared behind him and signalled for me to come in to the shelter. I declined and tried to show my gratitude with a smile, the universal language. He was having none of it and again urged me to come inside. In I went. I can't remember the exact number of people. Maybe four. The man and I assume his wife and their two children.

That was it. Nothing else. No pots, no pans, no blankets. Absolutely fuck all. It was dark and the smell was sickly sweet. The sound of the rain thumping against the plastic sheets struggling to fill the space. 

Three people standing and the smallest one in the mother's arms, all staring at me. Silent.

The man gestured me towards a log near the entrance where I assume he had sat and watched me photographing the boy. I sat down. I’m quite tall and this piece of wood was pretty small so it made for an awkward sitting position. The bottom few inches of the poncho I was wearing lay on the muddy floor. Even so, It was still amazing to take the weight off my legs after not sitting down for a few hours. 

From my position I was able to look outside. Red Rivulets made their way down the hillside changing direction as they encountered an obstacle. It reminded me of the children's game ‘Mousetrap!’

The boy, now at his father’s side was face to face with me. Staring. He didn’t seem to blink. He was no longer a child. Whatever he had witnessed had stolen that from him. It’s difficult to convey just what this looks like in a person. Subtle facial expressions are erased. A dehumanisation occurs. I imagined if I looked deep enough into his eyes there would be a recording of the massacres back in Rakhine province playing on loop.  

The rain stopped and I eased myself of the log and stooped out through the gap in the black plastic so I could stand up straight and stretch. The family watched as I took off my poncho, shook the water from it and stuffed it into the backpack I carried which contained water and hand sanitiser. 

I thanked the family and ruffled the wee boy’s hair and headed out across the camp.

Three years or so later I’m sitting on my chair by the window. There are two chairs but this is the best as you can see the beach from here. I can’t see the log used for chopping sticks because it’s on the other side of the front door. But I know where it is. I’ll be using it shortly to get the fire ready for the evening. I like to put a fire on before I have my dinner. I sit at the table. Fire on. Front door open and watch the rain. Rivulets running down the driveway.