In a field, somewhere off in a distant land, a woman leans over the body of her dead husband; his face down in the dirt where he fell, a single bullet hole in the back of a head. She has no more tears left, having spent them on her two eldest sons found in the ditch a few feet from where she stands. Clutched to her breast,her last remaining boy, an infant, snuggles for warmth. At her side, much too young to be afraid, with her eyes fixed upon the corpse, a two-year-old daughter squeezes her hand tightly.
It is a quiet field. A very small patch of fertile land, passed from one generation to the next for centuries. Reason enough, according to the new regime, for the extermination of this family. Squatting low in the tall grass of the neighboring farmland she listened to the shots. One followed closely by another rang out, a few sharp words, pleas, and the final explosive ‘BANG’, that ended her husband’s life.
An enriching stain, once the blood of her husband, darkens the soil. Looking from earth to sky, she watches a single white cloud pass silently towards the horizon. The sound of crickets and a small tug on her sleeve brings her back from dazed contemplation. Seeing the remnants of family, an uneasy quiver runs the length of her spine. Bending down, grabbing a handful of soil, she spits on it and gently packs the broken skull.
She gazes over this place called home, with its sweet waving crops. Trees at the edge of the road are starting to turn deep rust with the season; branches full of watching crows sway from a cool northern wind. Covering the baby’s head with its blanket, she takes her daughter’s small hand, walks to the road, and steps decisively south.
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