HOLOCAUST

Cold sweat dripped from the nest of black hair, rugged and in disorder. I could feel my heart beating, loud drums like the signal for our yearly festival. Only this time, there weren’t masked goblins playing around the fire, consuming human corpses, pale and eyes wide. The nightmare was real; it was no dance.

I stripped and stumbled; hands protected me from ground’s harm. I looked up, confused and terrified. I heard the rough shout of a soldier and something sharp hit my back. He held his gun and glared at me, scolding me with words I could hardly understand. My mother bowed her head, not once but twice, and apologized. He pushed me forward and I winced, pain shooting up from my right shoulder. I clung to my mother, my only solace, the only person with whom I could seek refuge from. She was my sanctuary but despite that, I was filled with dread for somehow, even she could not keep the demons away.

Everyone stood outside, from my mother’s cousins, my cousin’s cousins, their families, and people whom I had known ever since I had the consciousness and awareness of my environment. I asked my mom why were we there? Why was everyone gathered together at the middle of the village with soldiers wearing uniforms like the gods’ mountains, with weapons on their hands? What did we do? What were they going to do?

My mother merely smiled and reassured me all was fine. The good men, she said, were checking the houses for guerillas. It’s good then, I said, that brother had left the house more than a week ago. She shushed me and motioned to keep my mouth shut. I never noticed the soldiers lift their guns until the first fire was heard. I could not count how many more shots rang throughout the dew-wet night. I wordlessly witnessed my mother fall beside me with shock and terror painted on her strained face, her body both shield and wall. I sharp cry deafened my ears and it took a few seconds before I realized it came from me who howled out in pain. I staggered and fell down while I felt my body weep blood on the ground.

I remained motionless. I did not try to stand up, to crawl, to lift my head, nor even open my eyes. I waited until the last footsteps of the soldiers died away. I had a vague recollection of sleeping once or twice in the middle of the merciless massacre. But when the moment came when I sensed no movement, no life, I pushed myself upwards from the ground and the light tinge of blue, the greeting of dawn, welcomed me. I stood up and realized I had left our village. I stood on a plain foreign to me, for it was not home. The soil remained barren saved for the hundred corpses that covered every blade of grass.

I was ten but I could not call myself a child.