FREEDOM - short story

Katarzyna Nowocin-Kowalczyk
Oct 22, 2023
16 min read

Updated: Mar 18

April 15th, 2019

story from the book: NOT EVERYTHING IS LIKE IT SEEMS Life-written Fairy Tales for Adults

by Katarzyna Nowocin-Kowalczyk (Catherine)

The horse gallops faster and faster through the open space, somewhere in the middle of the Ecuadorian Andes. He knows the area, I don't. However, I have the impression that I have been here before. At another time, in another world, in another reality. Unknown places, but so familiar. I intuitively coordinate my movements with the movements of the animal. Although this is my first horseback riding in this life, I feel like I've always done it. I know exactly how to behave. It's something familiar. Natural. As if a memory of previous lives. The soul is torn apart by a boundless sense of happiness. And this freedom...

Ecuador, “the middle of the world,” the end of the eighties. Before I flew to South America, I was fascinated by the books of Erich von Däniken, who had infected me with his concept of extraterrestrial civilizations, who had been visiting our earth for millennia. According to the Swiss, there are plenty of traces of their existence on earth, including the pyramids in Egypt. The most, exactly on the South American continent. Primitive humans of that time saw space travelers as gods. They erected for them temples, statues , cut their images in rocks, built something like airports, and told stories in the range of concepts and vocabulary available to them, as they understood them. It is much easier for people to create a fairy tale accessible to their perception of comprehension and believe in it than to believe in something they do not understand. A great example is Nikola Tesla's remotely controlled boat, which he presented at Madison Square Garden in New York in 1898. Guided by a wireless transmitter the boat accelerated, slowed down and turned in a small pool. However, radio waves are invisible in our range of vision and are rather difficult to imagine. A large part of the spectators gathered at the show preferred to believe that inside this boat sits a tiny man who maneuvers it—because in circuses, various “freaks” could be seen—than to believe in some radio message, or something new and unknown, which they had not dealt with before. So also our ancestors, having come into contact with something they had not seen before, created their gods. They paid tribute to them and were giving away their freedom.

The human mind is an enormous and often underestimated tool of power. And it's so easy to program. You are either a victim or a winner. No matter the circumstances. Everything is in our head. Because everything that is really valuable in this life we get for free—our body, soul, health, our mind, love, joy, smile, nature, mother earth, singing birds, the sound of trees, people who love us, no matter who we are, and many other things. Paradoxically, however, we value the most what we have to pay for. The more, the more valuable this thing seems. Also our freedom. And yet everything is in our head. A truly free man, even if he is in bondage, will still remain free in his soul.

So when, as a very young person, I flew to the southern continent of America, I imagined that here I would have the opportunity to see something extraordinary. To touch the alien civilization, maybe to get to know their descendants…I actually saw and experienced a lot of interesting things, but I didn't meet aliens. But I saw what feudalism looks like in practice—although Ecuador is, after all, a Republic—and I understood what freedom really is.

I am stopping the horse and for a long time enjoy the silence and the beauty of surrounding nature. I feel so free, and joy just bursts inside me. I smile. I don't have to do anything. No one bothers me. There is no one. No distractions. There is only this moment. And there are birds, wind, rustle of trees. In the distance high to the sky, massive peaks of mountains. I don't really know where I am, but I don't care at all. A smile turns into a loud laugh. "Let this moment last !" I shout with all my might. Oh, how good... So good...

"Lead home,” I say to the animal and lightly press his body with my legs. I don't know how I know the horse understands me. I just know. We are galloping again. After some time, we reach a familiar route. The horse seems to be reading my mind. We slow down. Now we are riding at walk. There are no buildings. There are only trees behind which expanses of bright-green meadows are stretching. Just around the corner, I unexpectedly come across a Jeep standing on the side of the road. From distance I can see a flat tire. It must have run over some sharp stone. By the open trunk a well, fashionably dressed man looking about sixty years old. The Indian turns around, and a wide smile appears on his face.

“Hola, buenos días, señorita, como esta, usted? (Hello, good morning lady, how are you?)” He greets me friendly.

“Buenos días,” I answer politely, albeit somewhat distrustfully.

“A good day for a horse ride. And good area.”

“Yes, you are right. Great ride and a beautiful day.”

“I saw a lady from the distance but I didn't want to interfere. The lady is white, but you can see that she has a free Indian soul. Where did the lady come from?”

“From a distant country. From Poland.”

“Poles are free spirits and have pride in their hearts, although also a difficult history. Your hearts are brave and courageous. Just like ours, Indian. You are trusting just like us. You were also betrayed by those whom you had as friends and who took your land from you. But tradition, language and a sense of community have survived. It is the strength of wise tribes. Your strength. And ours.“

I already like him...however there is surprise in my head. One of the last things I would expect to find here in the middle of the Andes, almost in the wilderness, is to meet someone who knows my country and my people.

“Do you know Poland?” I ask.

“Yes. I lived in Warsaw for four years while studying.”

“I'm also from Warsaw...You speak Polish.” I state more than I ask. I say this in my native language.

“Rather I was speaking,” he answers in Polish with a hardly audible accent. "I haven't used it for so many years that I forgot.”

For a moment we talk about his memories from Poland. I find out what he studied, which dishes he likes, which places he visited and of course I hear that Polish females are the most beautiful girls in the world and good companions and housewives, just like Indian women.

“Do you live here somewhere in the area? Do you need help? Can I notify someone?” I ask looking at the broken wheel.

“No thanks. I can handle it. I have a spare. I don't live in the area. I'm looking for someone. And I hope to find that person this time.”

"And where did you come from, if I may ask?"

“From Guayaquil–the largest city of Ecuador located in its western part and the main port of this country.”

“Good luck then. And thank you for the conversation. It was nice to meet you.”

“Goodbye lady. Maybe we'll meet again one day. The world is not as big as it seems, and life is unpredictable.” He smiles warmly. "And please never lose your freedom.”

I ride away. Soon I reach the wide open gate of the hacienda where I am staying as a guest. A short Indian in a traditional poncho and a hat comes towards me; one of the many who work here. Local Indians often wear hats. Contrary to the generally accepted name, the hats we call “Panama” originally came from Ecuador. Originally, they were hand-woven from plant fibers by local Indians. The name "Panama" was adopted during the construction of the Panama Canal, when this type of hat became popular in the United States.

The Indian smiles at me. I'm white, I have blonde hair, I smile at them, I treat them with respect and I'm curious about a different than mine culture, I keep asking about everything. No wonder that I arouse a lot of curiosity and trust in the local Indians.

“I see that the lady is happy with the ride." He speaks with that strange accent of his own, which even I can hear, although my Spanish still leaves much to be desired. However, this is an accent different from what I have heard among people of Quito. I noticed that some of the employees communicate with each other in their own language, unknown to me.

“Yes. Very.” I answer jumping to the ground.

“The horse did not cause trouble?”

“No, he did a great job." I say stroking the animal's neck.

“The lady rides well. Where did the lady learn to ride a horse? In Poland?”

The Indians working here can neither read nor write and rather do not know where this mysterious Poland is and what kind of country it is, but they know that I just came from there. One of the women even asked me: “Señorita, and how many hours by car do you drive to your country?” She was surprised when I replied that by car it would be rather difficult to get there. Maybe she thought it was somewhere in the middle of a tropical jungle. Unfortunately, I did not have time to explain it, because someone interrupted our conversation.

“It was my first time.”

“Impossible. The lady likes to joke.”

“I'm not kidding.”

We head towards the house. And the house is really big. Wooden. On each side, two perpendicular wings are adjacent to it. A veranda was built along the entire front part. The left wing is occupied by workers. I looked there, as if by accident, right after I arrived. The door was wide open. One large room, and on the floor some mattresses or straw paliasses. There was a group of people there—older and younger women, some were sewing something, one was feeding a baby, men were sleeping, and in a small free space, almost in silence, several children were playing. At that moment, it was a shock to me. I've never seen people live in such conditions before. And those mute glances of the big little curious eyes in which there was...serenity. A different world. Later I found out that they were mostly people from the jungle. They were not slaves. They volunteered to work on farms most of them belonging to Afro-descendants and mestizos—for food and shelter, sometimes for a meager salary that barely covered their basic needs. The brutal civilization of the West deprived them of their land, polluted the natural environment of their lives and pushed them to the margin. It took away their free world and home.

“Señora asked about the lady. She asked the lady to come to her when she came back from the ride. She's behind the house.”

“Thank you." This, natural for me, word '”thank you” always raises the surprise of Indian workers. Nobody here thanked them for anything.

I find the pensive middle-aged hostess sitting on the grass on the edge of a cliff rising behind the house. I sit next to her. The woman turns her face to me, smiles and returns to her thoughts again. In silence we look at the range of mountain peaks stretching in front of us reaching the sky. Words are superfluous. We both feel the immensity of beauty given to people by the Creator. Andes. The longest mountain range on earth, stretching along the Pacific Ocean from the gulf of the Caribbean Sea in the north to Tierra del Fuego in the south, over 9,000 kilometers. Mountains with the world's highest volcanoes, which are a kind of gateway to the interior of the earth. Andes, mountains connecting two worlds—heaven and earth.

“I love these mountains,” says the woman.

“It’s beautiful here.”

“Do you see this mountain opposite us?” Saying this, she points with her hand at the slope covered with green grass. "This area belongs to us. Also that and that one.” She indicates the mountain on the right and on the left.

“WOW!”

“We have large herds of cows and they need to be grazed somewhere." My hostess and her husband are engaged in cattle breeding, from whose milk they make cheese. They also have a lot of horses, serving primarily employees in their daily duties.

“Have you lived in this place for a long time?”

“Since our wedding. We inherited this hacienda from my husband's parents. We expanded, bought land, multiplied the number of cattle, and thus increased the production of milk and cheese.”

“Your husband is a good man and very family minded.”

“Yes. I couldn't wish for someone better. We raised three daughters and a son together, and we have grandchildren." I'm the guest of one of her daughters.

“And where are you from? From Quito?”

A moment of silence.

“I don't really know. I was born somewhere in the jungle...I spent the first few years in our village, and then everything changed.”

“Your parents moved?”

“No. My mother died at my birth. Dad was shot by white people who were looking for new land and cutting down our trees. I only stayed with my older brother.”

“Do you remember something from that period?”

“I was tiny. But I remember freedom and our community. We walked around naked. Uninhibited. We were all family to each other, we helped each other, we did everything together. I still have in my ears the melody of those songs that we sang together in the evenings by the fire.”

“How did it happen that you left that place?"

“I was five or six years old. My brother went to the river to catch some fish for a meal. I remember that he never let me stray away from the village alone. He left me, as always, playing with other children. But I didn't listen to him that day. I don't know why, and I don't remember why I wandered off. Maybe I ran after a butterfly? I remember those beautiful colorful butterflies...Oh, they were beautiful... Suddenly, I heard a strange noise behind my back...I turned around and saw white people...men... There were several of them...in the village they warned us against whites...I crouched behind a bush...I wanted to hide...but they have already seen me...They laughed and said something among themselves in their own language...then I did not understand, now I know that it was English...They approached...and they just took me...when I started screaming, one of them covered my mouth with his hand and put a knife to my neck...With a gesture, he showed me to be quiet...I cried in silence...Then he threw me on his back ...They walked for some time, stopping several times along the way to rest ...For me, it was an eternity... I was so scared...I still remember that fear...Then we came to some place where I think their camp was. There were horses, tents, and a few other white men. We spent the night there. Then we went on horseback...” Tears appeared in the eyes of my interlocutor. Her voice trembled. It was clear that despite the passage of time, these memories still hurt.

“Why did they take you?”

“They took me to England...and gave to someone as a gift...”

“As a gift?!”

“Yes. I was a gift. They gave me to a married couple as a mascot for their daughter a little older than me...”

“That’s terrible...” I feel my anger rise. “Did you live there for a long time?”

“No...they quickly got bored with me...They gave me to someone else...Then someone else and someone else...I've been to a few houses...Apparently I was too wild and too slow...They said that I was disobedient, rude...I was renamed a few times because everyone liked something different...I forgot my name given by my parents...But I haven't forgotten my brother's name...Finally, at the age of ten, I found myself with an older childless couple...They took care of me...They treated me like a daughter and offered love...They also gave me an education...I was able to come to Ecuador to study in Quito. There I met my husband...”

“Have you tried to find your village?”

“Yes. But it was difficult...No one could tell me where I was found, and I didn't remember much myself... I searched for many years, but I never found out...People died, left…in the meantime there was a war... Then I stopped...I had a different life...children, husband, this hacienda...other things were important...” “Buenos dias,” we hear suddenly behind our backs. We turn around. The Indian from the broken wheel is heading in our direction. “We are meeting again...I told you,” he smiles at me.

“Good morning, again.” I answer. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“It seems so...” he says looking infatuated at my companion. “Yes…I'm sure I did...”

“Buenos dias.” The woman's voice is uncertain, unusual for her. I look at her and see a strange excitement on her face. “Who are you? What brings you here?”

At this point, looking straight into her eyes, the man is speaking something in a language unknown to me. She automatically responds, as if unknowingly. However, she immediately reflects and adds in Spanish: “I did not think that I remember anything…The language of my childhood...Who are you?”

“You look exactly like our mom...I've finally found you...Half a century of searching...It paid off...I am your brother...”

We sit in the big living room of the hacienda sipping coffee with milk. In the fireplace, a yellow-red fire dances cheerfully. Previously, the men played on three guitars beautiful local nostalgic music that can be listened to and listened to. Now, the found brother is telling his story.

”We are Eberá Indians. In our language, 'ẽberá' means a local man, an indigenous person. Even in the nineteenth century, Colombia, as well as the areas of today's Panama, were inhabited almost exclusively by the indigenous people of Eberá and Guna…And then the white man came and began to destroy our world. Initially, we treated the whites as gods who had come down to us again from the stars and whom we had long been expecting. We thought they were friends. But they came for our land and our forest. We had to emigrate to other areas. The tribes dispersed. Ours moved near the border with Ecuador. That's where I was born, and then my sister. Our mother died at her birth. Five years later, whites shot our father...in front of my eyes...They came across a group of our men in the forest and wanted to enslave us. We only had bows, they had shotguns. We escaped, but unfortunately, our father had no luck in this skirmish…although we Indians look at matters of death differently than whites. I was fifteen at the time. I was a man. I had to take care of my sister. And one day she just disappeared...Then I found out that someone had seen a group of whites with an Indian girl...But the trail broke off...I only found out that they were English…then the war broke out...But I didn't stop looking...It took me over forty years...And finally I found you, my little sister...” He says this last sentence looking tenderly into her eyes.

”I don't remember much,” says the woman. ”Flowers in women's hair...Butterflies...singing... melodies...Dad holding me in his arms...I don't remember his face...but I remember you laughing, carrying fish you just caught...And then there was only fear...”

“You were little...and so cheerful, so trusting, so curious...and so independent...you kept laughing and constantly asking questions...you wanted to know everything...you asked me to teach you how to fish... For you, I was a champion...”

One of the guitarists sets the tone and in a moment the other two join in. This time the music is accompanied by words. The Spanish language is simply made for singing. No other language sounds as beautiful in songs as Spanish. When they finish, I turn to the man:

“Who are Eberá? What are your roots?”

“Old people tell this story, which has been passed down for generations: In the beginning there was only the sky, the sea and the jungle. Once upon a time, Our Mother Tachi Nawe descended from heaven to earth to live on Baudó Beach by the Choco River. There she gave birth to a son, Our Father, Tachi Ak'õre. The son kept asking his mom where he could meet someone to play with and talk to. He felt lonely. Finally he said: 'Mom, I'm going to create people.' Tachi Nawe replied: 'That’s well son, you will create people. But think first of how you're going to do it.' And so, God Tachi Ak'õre began his work. First, he collected materials needed to prepare puppets that were to transform into living people. He made them of clay and brava reed. The puppets were different, small big, pretty, ugly...He used different raw materials, that’s why we are different...because that's how he created us...When the puppets were ready, he placed them next to him on the beach and at midnight breathed life into them. He told them, 'Get up, because you'll be like me.' When the puppets came to life, Tachi Ak'õre saw that they all had brown skin, so he decided to distinguish them. For this, he created a pond with a brave fish (peces bravos) and ordered his creatures to jump straight into the water one by one before the water dried. Not everyone did it at the same time. Those who jumped in first became white; those who jumped in later got a darker color of mestizos. Eberá jumped when there wasn't a lot of water, so our skin is copper. The last to jump when the pond had already dried up were the Blacks, which is why their skin is the same color as the mud. Finally, depending on the color of their skin, Tachi Ak'ore gave each of his creatures a different language so that they could communicate with it in their own way. And all these languages are known and understood only by Tachi Ak'ore...This is how people, races and languages were born. However, at the beginning of creation, we were all created in the same color and spoke the same language, which is why we are all brothers.”

For a long time, everyone is silent.

“It is interesting how in many, completely different cultures, the tales about the creation of man and the purifying power of water converge,” I say.

“My Eberá and peoples like us, we have our cosmovision of the world. The worlds of spirit and matter are intertwined. The beings we called gods came from the stars, and people then added their own stories. For us, Eberá, the greatest values are: our nature, tradition, solidarity and reciprocity. And, of course, our freedom. But for you, as a Pole, this is probably very close. You also have your 'Solidarity' and this is not a random name. Only concerted, joint action can defeat the colossus.”

“Since I was a child I have felt...in fact I know, that there is something more than this so-called truth that the world is trying to impose on me...When I try to talk about it, about what I feel, how I see...dream... as if the memory of previous lives...people look at me distrustfully...as at an Other...I learned to be silent on this subject...For the first time I meet someone for whom what I feel is something natural...someone who sees the same thing and in the same way...”

“Being different is an honor. Being average is a curse. The world is changed by those who do not fit into mediocrity. They think differently and act differently. Every soul has its own way to proceed in this life. The Creator not only made us different, but also gave us free will. He gave us freedom. Free will means that, regardless of the conditions, or the so-called circumstances of fate, as many call it, it is we who decide how we will live the life given to us. Not making a decision is also a decision.”

“But why do children suffer so often?" My hostess made more of a statement than asking a question.

“Dear sister, everything is for something...every suffering helps us to enter the path of destiny...If you were an ordinary average child with a slave nature, you would probably become a slave...a maid in an English house. But you were free... different...they must have said you were naughty...rebellious...you did not fit into the narrow perception and artificial conventions...they didn't want to know you or understand you...they wanted to train you...bring down to your level...It is possible to be in captivity and still remain free. Because Freedom is in our head, heart and soul. Freedom is a state of mind... And this is how our Creator has made us.”

Somewhere nearby, the guitar strings sounded again slightly moved with skilled fingers.

*****