Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 29 Individual Revenge and Structural Oppression

Miguel gripped the pistol, his finger lightly on the trigger, raised it, aimed, breathed, and pulled the trigger.

The cramped basement had mottled, moldy walls and damp water stains seeping from the ceiling.

There were no windows; the only light came from a rickety light bulb overhead, faint and pale.

Raise your hand, aim, breathe, and pull the trigger.

Raise your hand, aim, breathe, and pull the trigger.

Raise your hand, aim, breathe, and pull the trigger.

He closed his eyes in anguish, as memories flooded back, dragging him back to that sun-scorched earth—

When he was a child, the summers in Bahia were always long and scorching.

The air was filled with the sweet aroma of sugarcane and the moist scent of turning soil.

My father was working in the fields, his back slightly hunched, his muscles tense, and sweat dripping down his face.

The mother stood by the well in front of the house, humming an old song that only she could remember.

Miguel would always sit in front of the cabin, barefoot on the dry ground, his eyes fixed on his father's figure.

He remembered his father teaching him how to observe the soil, how to feel its moisture with his fingertips, how to distinguish which plot of land was suitable for growing sugarcane, and which plot should be rotated with beans.

His father had told him that the land was alive; it would respond to those who truly understood it, giving them a bountiful harvest and punishing those who disrespected it.

Life wasn't wealthy, much less wonderful, but it was at least complete, a reality woven from the sun, the soil, and sweat.

However, time flies, and even such a life is now out of reach.

In the town's market, the prices of goods from large agricultural enterprises are shockingly low, and small agricultural products simply cannot be sold.

Government subsidies have decreased, while bank loan interest rates are rising.

One by one, villagers began to abandon their farmland and take their compensation money to the city to make a living.

But the father and mother were unwilling to leave.

Six years ago, on a hot afternoon, the air was so stuffy it was suffocating, and the cicadas chirped incessantly.

A black sedan drove into the farm, kicking up dust in the air.

Two men in suits got out of the car, with gentle smiles, handed them a contract, and began to persuade them to sell the land.

Miguel remembers standing under the eaves, listening to his father's resolute words, his fingertips clenched until they turned white.

The men's smiles didn't disappear; instead, they softened, as if they were trying to persuade a stubborn country bumpkin.

"Sir, as you know, the agricultural market today is not what it used to be."

“The government is encouraging modernization, and your business model is outdated. If you continue to struggle, you will only lose more money.”

“If you are willing to sell this land, we can offer a generous compensation.”

"Otherwise, bank loan interest rates will likely continue to rise, and tax breaks will no longer apply to individual farmers like you. We regret to say that future subsidies may also be cut."

"Of course you have the freedom to choose, after all, this is a democratic country."

"However, we always hope that you can make the decision that is in the best interests of the family."

The days that followed were indeed getting harder and harder to endure.

The water supply system also inexplicably malfunctioned, and the town government even stopped sending engineers to inspect the maintenance of the farmland irrigation system.

The mother began to feel lost, often staring blankly at the ceiling at night.

She tried to persuade her father to compromise, saying that maybe they really should sell the farm and take Miguel to the city to try a different way of life.

But the father remained silent, and finally just shook his head.

Miguel didn't understand his father's stubbornness and even began to resent his obstinacy.

He couldn't understand it. Why insist on holding onto this land that was destined to be lost? Why not leave sooner? Why gamble the future of his entire family on a war that had already been lost?

Then, the fire broke out.

That night, he was awakened by the acrid smell of smoke, and the world was engulfed in a red glow.

In his hazy consciousness, he heard his mother's cries and his father's roars, and the crackling flames engulfing everything.

He rushed out of the room and saw the raging fire spreading from the warehouse to the house. The shadows of the sugarcane in the fields swayed violently in the firelight, like a dream about to collapse.

He tried desperately to grab his mother's hand, but her body had already collapsed to the ground, her eyes staring blankly, reflecting a distorted image.

The father rushed into the fire, trying to save the last remaining possessions, but he never returned.

Thick smoke billowed and flames raged, but Miguel dared not blink, much less look away for even a moment.

The fire trucks arrived late, just before dawn.

By the time they extinguished the last flame, the farm had been reduced to charred ruins.

The investigation report stated that the fire was caused by a short circuit in the electrical wiring.

So, on the morning of his thirteenth birthday, Miguel became an orphan.

For the next five years, he searched for an opportunity for revenge.

He naively believed that as long as he found the arsonist, as long as he found the person who pressed the switch and poured gasoline, he could get revenge.

However, the people he could find were not worth his personal attention—they were just gangsters who were paid to do things and didn't even care whose house they were burning down.

Their goal was simply to complete the transaction, get paid, and then go to bars and brothels for fun.

The next day, he continued to carry out new missions for others until his life was ended by a stray bullet.

Killing them is pointless.

His hatred was something they could not bear.

But Rodriguez Hoffman was different.

Miguel first saw the name in an internet cafe in a Salvadoran slum.

A campaign speech was playing on the screen.

A well-dressed man stood on the podium, smiling confidently, and spoke eloquently about economic liberalization, agricultural reform, God, and morality.

Miguel held his breath.

In that instant, he heard his own heart pounding for the first time.

What truly killed people was not the fire, but Rodriguez's pen.

It is his laws, his policies, and every word he utters on the podium.

It was he who drove that black car into the farm; it was he who caused the town government to withdraw all its support; it was he who left him, at the age of thirteen, standing before his parents' graves, utterly destitute.

Miguel solemnly put on the uniform symbolizing his volunteer status.

The dark blue shirt clung to his shoulders and back, with a neatly embroidered campaign slogan on the chest.

#Prosperidade Ordem Futuro
#Hoffman200X
The cramped basement had mottled, moldy walls and damp water stains seeping from the ceiling.

There were no windows; the only light came from a rickety light bulb overhead, faint and pale.

Raise your hand, aim, breathe, and pull the trigger.

Raise your hand, aim, breathe, and pull the trigger.

Raise your hand, aim, breathe, and pull the trigger.

Today is his eighteenth birthday.

(End of this chapter)