Hunting with
a slingshot was the bread and butter of boyhood in my generation—a rite of
passage for young country boys. A catapult dangling from a boy’s neck was as
common as shadows at sunrise—an unmistakable sign of youthful curiosity and
untamed energy. These were days when our pastimes were stitched together by our
own hands, simple yet rich, untouched by the buzz of electronics or the glare
of screens.
The
slingshot, or catapult, is a hand-powered projectile weapon with a Y-shaped frame
and elastic bands attached to a pouch that held small stones. We bought the
rubber bands at the weekly souk. There were two types to choose from:
flat bands, often repurposed from tire inner tubes, and tubular bands, pricier
but far more durable. We whittled the frames from orchard trees and fashioned
the pouches from worn-out shoe leather. Soaking the leather in water softened
it, making it pliable for crafting. To us, these slingshots were more than
tools—they were the heartbeat of childhood adventure.
I recall
with a warm ache the times I hunted alongside my elder brother. Back then, I
was his “beater,” a sidekick descending the valley, flushing out game with
shouts, thrown stones, or a stick dragged noisily through the underbrush. When
the birds perched above him in the trees, he struck with the precision of a
marksman, killing them instantly. My reward? The honor of carrying the game,
strung proudly on my belt like trophies of war.
Eager to
follow in my brother’s footsteps, I began crafting my own slingshots around the
age of eight. I started carving frames and buying bands from the souk.
Hunting became a shared adventure with my younger brother and cousins, each of
us taking turns as hunter and beater in a fair and playful democracy. Wild
pigeons (tourterelles) were our prized quarry, though we also hunted
quails, larks, and sparrows. Quails, elusive and solitary, were a rare delight,
while sparrows and larks filled the gaps when pickings were scarce.
The best
part of the hunt came after: we would bring the game home, pluck the feathers,
wash the birds, and roast them over open flames. Their meager meat, seasoned by
fire and triumph, tasted divine to us. Our parents, however, teased us, calling
it a child’s indulgence, and rarely joined us in savoring our spoils.
Through
practice, my slingshot became a seamless extension of my arm. I could bring
down a bird mid-flight with uncanny precision. But beyond hunting, my catapult
proved versatile: it was my tool for knocking ripe figs from treetops, my
guardian against stray dogs, and my weapon of choice against snakes, which I
shot from a safe distance.
Yet,
slingshot hunting was not without its dangers and harsh lessons, some etched
deep into my memory. One summer, while stalking wild pigeons, I crept cautiously
through a shrub for cover. My focus was so intense on my target that I failed
to notice a hidden wasp nest until I was practically nose-to-nest with it. In a
heartbeat, the wasps erupted like an angry volcano, their stingers raining down
on my face. I flung my slingshot away and fled in a frenzy, swatting and
shouting, but the persistent swarm chased me all the way home. For a week, my
face was a swollen canvas of pain, soothed only by my grandmother’s poultices
and prayers.
But the
darkest memory of my slingshot came in the summer of 1974, a memory that still
weighs heavy on my heart. I had been sent to retrieve our equids—mares, mules,
and a prized jet-black colt my uncle was breaking in to replace an aging
chestnut horse. That colt, a lively spirit, often strayed to mingle with the
neighbor’s animals. On this particular evening, it stubbornly refused to
return, despite my best efforts. Frustration surged through me like a tempest.
In a moment of anger, I aimed my slingshot at its neck and let the stone fly.
The result
was a tragedy I neither intended nor foresaw. The colt reared, shaking its head
in pain, and to my horror, blood trickled from its left eye. My heart sank into
the pit of my stomach as guilt flooded every fiber of my being. Desperate and panicked,
I ran to the old well near our orchard and hurled my slingshot into its depths,
wishing I could vanish along with it.
My family
was puzzled by the colt’s injury, making numerous guesses and asking endless
questions, but I hid the truth for a while, burdened with guilt. Although I bared my soul to my grandmother a couple of months later, seeking solace for my egregious mistake, the weight of having wounded the innocent creature remains an enduring ache in my heart. The colt’s recovery was
slow; the stone had damaged the side of its left eye, leaving a scar that never
faded. My family treated it with herbal remedies, but every time I saw the
animal flinch in pain, I wished I could undo my reckless act.
A year later, the colt was sold at a reduced price to a dignitary from a neighboring tribe who loved its breed. Though it was gone, the memory of that day has never left me. Even now, I lose sleep wondering why some lessons must come at such a high cost. I often pray the colt, in whatever realm it may now roam, has forgiven the reckless boy I once was.
