| 13. The Aftermath of Trees |
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| Wednesday, 07 April 2010 | |||||||||||
Scholastic Mark Lopez, SJ
The Setting: A large empty plot, strewn with leaves and branches of newly felled eucalyptus trees, viewed from the second floor balcony of a house across the street.
The Scene: Five truckloads of what were once the trunks of trees, now logs, being driven away. As soon as the loggers are gone, the community, 50 or so men women and children residing in the surrounding houses and shanties, move in for what was left of the kill. With their little axes and machetes, they take what they can of branches and twigs for firewood.
The Story: Once upon a time, or, more accurately, only yesterday (20 March 2010), the plot across from the new Jesuit residence here in Phnom Penh was filled with eucalyptus trees. They were probably 10 to 15 years old, and were already three to four stories tall. Alone, this eucalyptus variety (Australian, long-leafed) looks lanky and dry, but grouped together as they were here before, they made for a respectable, elegant, and almost graceful faux forest. I remember that when I first visited this newly-built house a few months ago, I was quickly able to identify what I loved most about it: those trees. The view from the veranda of the floor of the house was of tree tops that made a curtain of ceaselessly dancing branches and chattering gray-green leaves which cooled the breeze and soothed this house's spirit.
Today, they are gone. And the sounds and scenes of chainsaws and axes I have had to endure over these past two days re-awakened strange, dark feelings from childhood: the sense that so much of what affects our lives is beyond our control, that the things we love and cherish could be lost, forever. Rumor has it that whoever sold those trees made US$500 from the weekend's harvest. I can only pray that the community, after missing the trees and realizing what they just lost, will know that they were worth much more. And perhaps will plant life anew, and no longer for cutting them down later. I know eventually that I can try to talk to our neighbors about this and see what can be learned or done. But for the moment, no such plans bring consolation to the grieving. The breeze is hotter already now as I write this. The light from the windows has become glaring and harsh. And the strains of violin music I'm listening play for the dance of dead trees.
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