The Foreign Service Journal, May 2006

76 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / M A Y 2 0 0 6 R EFLECTIONS Firecrackers B Y R EBEKKAH L AEUCHLI W henever I hear a firecrack- er, I still have a vague fear that it’s a gunshot. That association goes back years to when we lived in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic, and I was 10 years old. The first mutiny wasn’t serious enough to warrant our leaving the country. The firecracker gunshots came in both the first and second mutinies. The morning of the second mutiny, Daddy was called to the embassy. We didn’t see him again for six weeks. During the first mutiny we were moved to the American embassy for a few days. We didn’t have much to do at the embassy and were bored. The second mutiny came about a month after the first. It was suggested we might have to evacuate, an idea I recorded excitedly in my diary. This diary was a recent acquisition, as I was a big Anne Frank fan at the time. I kept the journal fairly faithfully, in a self-important tone. On the first out- break of violence I wrote grandly, “Sarah and Naomi [my younger sis- ters] are scared.” The best thing about the diary is its smell. When I sniff the paper I feel I am back in Africa, I can hear the black night with machine-gun fire echoing through it, and I can sense again in my mouth the peculiar taste that air has when it’s dangerous to be out of doors. I dream of that taste sometimes. When the second mutiny broke out, we didn’t go to the embassy; the embassy came to us. Our house was by the river and was surrounded by tall walls topped with barbed wire, and patrolled by several guards. It had been the Marines’ residence before they left, once the country was deemed stable. This meant that our house was very secure, but it also meant there were no Marines. All the spouses and children from embassy families moved in. We had five bed- rooms and each family was assigned a room. My brother, sister and I slept on the floor; Naomi, the youngest, shared the bed with Mama. At night I could hear Mama talking on the radio as reports came in. I don’t remember what day we left, but a French military truck came and picked us up. I do remember the night before; Daddy called and told us to pack. Mama said that after we left our house would probably be looted, and Sarah (who was almost 8) started to cry. I decided this was my cue to be a bright ray of sunshine and hazarded, “Maybe they won’t loot our house.” Mama shook her head, “Daddy says to think of all this stuff as gone.” So we went into our separate rooms to pick out the things we want- ed to take. Clothing was the least important. My favorite stuffed pig, my diary and the Bible that was Mama’s when she was little were coming with me. I picked up my blue bunny to say goodbye to him, and to apologize to him and all the other stuffed animals because they couldn’t come too. We slit open Sarah’s enormous toy horse and took all his stuffing out to make him fit in a suitcase. We left the next day. Riding through the city of Bangui was surre- al. The streets were devoid of normal activity. Instead, French soldiers camped by the roads and in the ditch- es. Late that night we boarded a plane, and an hour later we landed in Cameroon. A bus with lights that glared white took us to the hotel. I wrote irately in my diary that our piano was back in Bangui along with all our music, and my fingers would get weak from not practicing. The French eventually put down the rebellion, and Daddy came home at the beginning of July, a lot thinner than when we last saw him. Our house wasn’t looted after all. Even- tually our stuff was packed up and shipped to us. Houses all around ours were broken into and everything stolen, sometimes including the roof. I even got my blue bunny back. A decade later, I hardly ever think about the mutiny, except when I hear firecrackers. Those still make me a little nervous. n Rebekkah Laeuchli spent her early life traipsing around the globe on diplomatic travels with her family. Now 20, she lives in Budapest, where she studies the piano. Stamp cour- tesy of the Stamp Corner.