Frozen Rubbish

FROZEN RUBBISH
By Martin Ough Dealy August 2021

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The gale had travelled over the frozen wastes to the north and carried tiny icy particles that struck my exposed skin like scalding water. Every living thing was in its winter survival mode. The few trees were like skeletons, leafless arms waving sadly at the grey scudding clouds above.
The endless flat paddy fields were frozen solid, a heavy mist partially obscured the village and the more distant mounds of ancient graves. The summer sounds of noisy frogs, buzzing flies and whining mosquitos were a distant memory. The prevailing noise was the howl of the wintery blast. There was not much snow as the climate was generally dry, but what snow there was lightly blanketed the land in shallow drifts.
The locals endured the cold in the village and survived on the rice harvested the previous summer, their pickled Kimchi, the frozen meat of small animals and fish and the remains of dead water buffalo. They were inured to the conditions by repeated exposure to the elements all year round and seemed indifferent to the harshness of their squalid lives.
Village society followed ancient traditions, superstitions, and beliefs of the past, established over the centuries. It was male dominated. The woman’s role was subservient. Male babies were preferred, baby girls were vulnerable. That was the way it had always been and was now.
No longer able to spread the night soil over the paddy fields as they did in warmer times, the village men disposed of it in pits dug the previous autumn. These quickly developed a frozen surface which covered a mushy, noisome partially frozen human rubbish. These “honey pots” were easy to locate in the early winter despite being covered in snow. But the level of the “honey” rose as the winter progressed and only the locals could be sure to avoid falling in.
The river had long since frozen over. The ice was now strong enough to enable trucks to cross. In some places the local fishermen had erected small huts on the ice within which to shelter and try their luck through holes cut to reach the fast-flowing water below.
On a calm day often the only signs of life in the village were the smoke rising from the small pot chimneys on top of the thatched roofs and a few people moving about in the open, bundled up in their traditional winter clothing.
But in the gale the smoke was quickly scattered. The village looked dead. No one ventured outside. No one in their right mind risked going out in such weather.
Except on this day.
I watched as a lonely figure came furtively out of one of the huts carrying a small bundle and hurried along the path down to the river. Leaning against the wind she stepped out on to the ice and headed towards a fisherman’s hut.
The young woman then slipped, dropping the bundle. The wind carried the terrified cries of the girl baby. I can still hear that awful sound as the desperate mother lifted the bundle and ran on into the hut.
The cries ceased suddenly, as the gale howled on.
She came out of that hut alone. She hesitated, as if reluctant to go, but turned away for home without another backward glance, leaving behind - her frozen rubbish. There was no sign of remorse or tears, just stoicism …. that was how life was in that awful time.

FAG ENDS
OF A
FORGOTTEN WAR