Life had been so enjoyable but then, in 1994, that had all changed. I realised we were fugitives on this planet.

In that year, the Bougainville Crisis was at its peak and bloodshed was inescapable as people from all over Bougainville suffered from the blockade that had been imposed.

Tabago was set up as a care centre and civilians who couldn’t survive in the bush had to surrender to the Papua New Guinea Defence Force (PNGDF) and were given a place to reside in the care centre.

Sick and old people unable to walk in the bush were also brought to Tabago by the Bougainville Resistance Force who worked alongside the PNGDF.

It was 17 May 1994 and my mama and I were outdoors with some other people getting ready to celebrate what was called Mekamui Day.

Parents, guardians, women and children were enjoying themselves weaving shiny grass skirts near an old church building.

I left my mama and went to the field to chase grasshoppers, oblivious to the chaotic turn the day was about to take.

I left the other boys near the old building and start doing my own thing. Suddenly a stream of smoke rose in the sky from the village; it was a signal to the PNGDF.

Then a helicopter came towards our clandestine village. I ran to a nearby small tree to get out of sight because mama had told me that, whenever I heard a helicopter, I must hide.

The helicopter came, then flew south. This confused everybody who didn’t realise the people on board had already seen what was happening in the village.

The community began to divide into groups ready to perform. Some groups were getting ready to form string bands with old guitars. On the other side there was a group getting ready to present the famous Solomon Dance. There were other groups in a far corner preparing a bamboo band.

After an hour, a huge black Iroquois helicopter abruptly roared no more than 50 metres above us.

I ran like a wild animal to hide in the old church. As I hid under a bench, I heard the loud noise of guns spraying our village with bullets from the Iroquois.

Loud cries from the mothers made me creep from under the bench and run in the direction of my mama. Bullets from the air tore into the soil around me but none hit me. Still I did not fully realise my predicament.

I went into an old apaito (meeting house) and was confused and shivering with fear. Everyone had left the village and melted into the bushes; even the domestic animals had gone.

The smell of gunpowder and the jet fuel dominated the air; smoke rose from bullet holes. Meanwhile, the Iroquois gunner fired continuously.

I ran from the meeting house towards a nearby creek and leapt into a drain, my adrenaline extinguishing thoughts of getting hurt. Fortunately, I was able to find a cave in which to hide. I waited for 30 minutes until everything was quiet.

I climbed out of the drain and crept slowly through the bushes, fear still in my heart.

I was about to reach the first house in the village when I heard people crying. I ran to the far end of the village with sweat falling like rain from my face.

Jacob, a young man, was seriously wounded. It was my first time to see a person who was shot. I saw his blood pumping out like a thick red liquid spilling on to the ground. Just as I was about to faint, I felt mama’s hand holding me and lifting me to her chest.

She was crying as if I was already dead and mumbling to herself incomprehensibly.

All I can remember now is a woman who was crying and saying, “You stupid PNGDF, you are not supposed to be shooting at civilians.”

We were confused about what to do next. There was no hospital or clinic and Jacob was about to lose his life. Out of nowhere, a bush doctor appeared with traditional medicine. He helped Jacob and was able to stem the flow of blood.

After the incident we moved on again; on again to a different area. We left our taro and banana gardens even though they were in the season for harvesting.