People kill caterpillars, yet they complain there are no butterflies.

The same as genocide. Do they destroy the nation or eliminate an ethnic group?

I watch the mid-way transformation of the caterpillar from the tree above me. It must be such an odd experience from the inside, a sort of confusing birth until it emerges with some biological comprehension of what it has become.

While lying here on the grass, I can't help but admire the blue sky - a perfect protecting dome that plays with the sunlight on these fine days, promising to be the canvas of our laughter. It is here, with head in the silky grass that time both stops and stretches to the infinite showing its beauty.

Birds pass from above me. The sound of those birds brings me back to my childhood days.

Who knows that the sound of the birds in an area is so distinct? The sound comforts me as I rouse myself from sleep, so happy to be back in our ancestral land after so many years.

My father once told me to protect this land no matter what and here I am, wearing a red-patterned cloth with a bow and arrow by my side.

I fix my eyes towards the cocoon. The struggle to leave the cocoon is a dark phase before becoming a butterfly and be free. I am about to become something beautiful. We and our people are about to taste freedom.

As I am mesmerizing the beauty of life through a cocoon, I heard the familiar horn. They are coming!

Panic begins like a cluster of spark plugs in my abdomen. Tension grows in my face and limbs, as my mind replays the last attack in our land.

I bounce from my sleeping position and crouch to get my bow and arrow, "Farewell little, blue, soon-to-be butterfly. Wish us luck!"

The horn sounds like a World war II air-raid siren. It wails along the forests and mountains surrounding our land, echoing everywhere.

I run, feet kissing the land, travelling at speed and as light as the paws of a lioness. Breathing steady, heart strong - I am born to run and fight!

The moment I reach our land, everybody is in their own positions, getting ready for the attack. Silence takes over our area. I climb to a giant stone, my assigned place, where there is a mini-cave.

Up here, it's like looking down at the world. I can see the trees, the flowers, the sea of clouds and the houses of our tribe.

The arrow in my hands speaks to me with my father's words, "In this hominid species born of genocidal survival, killing our own species of different ethnic groups and social evolution has become something of a hobby. If you can't, leave this land to another with deeper spiritual roots. They kill us. They kill heroes. It is what they do. Just feeling cross is enough motivation for them to drive nails through their opposition, not much has changed, eh?"

I feel into my soul; search and find only a reverence for creation for all humans, animals and plants, and a soft regret that I had to kill. Yet it is necessary to keep healthy those I love and am a defender of our land.

Suddenly, a series of gunshots were heard. Birds from this forest flew immediately as the gunshots continued.

I am about to release the arrow to a man dressed in camouflage when the smell of smoke registered right away to my nose.

The fire from afar burns like a temper, as if the leaping flames have a terrible anger toward the living world. It moves faster than a person can run though the deer stand a strong chance, moving swiftly as they do. The air smells and tastes like bonfire while the horizon glows orange beneath the smokey wind-dragged plume.

This forest fire chills me. In this forty degree heat I'm actually shaking. The trees that sheltered so many with their spreading canopy of green and provided so much will be lifeless sticks of charcoal soon. This reality is cruel enough as I stand mute before the flames, I don't think I could survive that again.

I feel fear raging inside me as my arrows launch straight and true, always right on target. I hardly notice the bow any longer, it's as if we have become one. From time to time, I had killed more than ten men in less than two minutes.

Senses sharpen with adrenaline, I release my last arrow to a man aiming for my cousin.

I got up from my position to pull my Kabilan (sword) from my waist, when a bullet spat out from my throat, propelling me backwards.

Time seems to slow down as I fall. For a few seconds I look up at the blue sky, admiring it for the last time.

Before I close my eyes, a small, blue butterfly beats its wings up and down above me. It is the same butterfly I saw a while ago. This may be my last lifetime, but I know too well that they can't kill all caterpillars and eliminate all butterflies. Genocide will be a never ending fight for us. 

It is said that the life span of a butterfly is short. I guess we are the same. Time flies, so do mine. Just living isn't enough, having sunshine and freedom is. My life will end in a few seconds but freedom is not in my hands.

The butterfly, flower of the sky, dances by in a whirl of color just right above me. She raises her wings as an organic clock, each flutter a moment until her time of rest.

I believe that whenever I see a blue butterfly, it is a loved one who has come down from heaven just to say hello.

"A warrior must always have a core of love to be safe, to be one with mother nature and the spirits who guide us. I pray one day that this land may be at peace, and let our hearts be all the weapons we need. Until then, this is how it is. Thank you anak."

My time is yet to be over, but I am glad I heard my dead father's voice.

#WingsofTime