My people have always been aware that the world is larger than just our one
little island. We even have a history of trading with some of our neighbors.
Many generations ago, however, we decided that we didn’t need anything from
anyone else anymore. Our former trade partners accepted this, and moved on,
but then my ancestors discovered that there were others who were less used
to being told no. As our oral history tells it, one of the first major
interactions we had was with an army of men who wanted to take everything
that we had. They wore clothing made of rocks, and threw fire at my
ancestors. They must have assumed that they were superior warriors. But this
is our home; we will always defend it, and we will always be better. The
survivors attempted to retreat, but my ancestors only let one of them go so
he could warn all others to stay away. Apparently, some people did not get
the message, so a few more attempts were made to conquer us. We lost a lot
of lives to the wars, but we won every time. After that, a small group of
men and women, who appeared to be a family, showed up on our shores. They
had books in their hands, and they drew in the sand, and they pointed to the
sky. We speak our own special language, so communication would have been
rather difficult for them. After much time, the ancestors realized that
these strangers were trying to convey the meaning of God. They showed
images, and used other symbology, which my people did not recognize, so I
believe that they had a very different idea of who God actually was, and
what she could do for the world. They too left the island, but much more
peaceably, for we are a reasonable people, and we recognize surrender.
The first interaction I remember was when I was only a small boy. I remember
them being less hostile than the fighters, but less peaceful than the
storytellers. They were trying to take something from us too, but they
obviously preferred us to give it to them without bloodshed. I was very
young, I don’t know exactly what the white men wanted. They seemed to think
that there was something special about our land. We always considered it
sacred, but that was no business of theirs. I think they eventually got the
message...somehow. My mother led the battle that fought them off. There was
less death than in past conquests. No one died on our side, and it was clear
that some of the invaders didn’t want to fight at all. They actively tried
to pull the more aggressive of their group away, and we let them. We are
less violent than we once were. A few suns later, a single woman arrived on
the shore. I remember thinking she was pretty, but we still couldn’t tell
what she was saying. By her hand gestures, my father believes that she was
attempting to apologize for the recent invasion. We let her go, hoping that
she understood that it could not happen again, or we would kill without
question. One morning many seasons later, after a storm, a girl I hoped to
one day marry shouted from the shore. We ran down to find her hovering over
a white man who was lying on his back. My mother tried to spear him, but my
friend and I stopped her. This man was cold and blue. Pieces of wood and
other things had washed up alongside him. It was evident that he did not
come on purpose. We begged them not to kill him, and they eventually agreed.
We were lucky. A few months later—after the man had given up hope on
rescue—my wife-to-be fell into a deadly fever. He gave her some of his
medicine, which he did not seem to think was a big deal. Today I’ve learned
that she will outlive me.
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