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Hordes of screams sounded out all around and masses of slashed bloody villagers staggered into our village.  Grownups started running to finding stuff to clean them     They kept saying “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” and talking about running away so they could live.  
     They said that hundreds of men had been hacked to death and they were the lucky ones.  There was rape…and death…and starvation…and disappearing thousands, not just in their village, but in other villages in Dafur, too.
     Since Uncle Sofarlo and grandma hadn’t arrived, yet, Mom became histeric.  Then, someone said a man with an old woman was still in the desert and they weren’t hurt.  Mama raising her eyes upward and thanked God. 
     I didn’t understand exactly what was happening, but a few years later, I learned first hand.  One dreadful day, the Arab militia rode into my village.  The first thing they did was ride over to the well and start cutting off people’s arms and pushing them to the ground.   They laughed as they drew water for themselves and their camels.  Then, they cut off my father’s head and started grabbing my playmates and their mothers.
     Terrified, I slunk back into our hut.  My parents had dug a hole in the floor beneath each bed shortly after my grandmother and the rest of the survivors had come to live with us.  They told me that if those bad men came to our village that I must hide in the hole and not make one sound.  So, that is what I did.
     Sometimes, I would lift the cover and peek out.  I saw one of those men slash Uncle Sorarlo’s head with a hatched and throw it in the well.  One of them grabbed my mother by the hair and slung her into a nearby hut.  Then he dismounted and went in. Her horrible screams still flash through my memory.  I saw and heard appalling things happening to other women, young girls, and even the little boys.
     I could hear loud voices and laughter as the Janjaweed savages watched the survivors scamper like rabbits into the desert.  Next, they set the huts on fire and rode after them.  Then, there was silence.
     I stayed shivering in that dark hole what seemed like forever.  Then, my older brother came over to help me out.  He had hidden beneath his bed, too.  We never saw our grandmother or cousins again, but we were alive!  
     Survival was the next challenge.  My big brother was smart and had faith in God.  It is because of his strength and bravery that we are both alive today to tell the story.  
     Please help the people of Dafur.

Copyright 10-13-2014
I chose Dafarian Genocide.

Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE  Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan

PART 1 SETS THE STAGE.  PLEASE READ
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