Oct 27, 2020  10:34 AM

Ever since I could breathe on my own, I have always worn a cross. But due to my clumsiness, it isn’t the same cross. I lose one every year, if it even lasts that long. The cross that is hanging from my neck is a cross carved from black stone and even carrying that weight is too hard. It has been half an hour since the eight of us have been climbing this god-forsaken mountain and I can taste the sweat coming out of my face.

Because my parents are devout Ethiopian Orthodox Christians, when they heard of an ancient monastery that lies on top of a mountain 100 kilometers from our home in Adwa, Tigray, their response was, “Of course, we will go and take our five-year-old son and our teenage kids with us.” They managed to convince my friend Nahom’s family to go with us, much to my happiness.

During the trip they ask the bus driver to play mezmur (Ethiopian church hymns) and everyone is singing along. I am fast asleep. After an hour of relaxing sleep, I wake up as we reach a gravel road. We are deep into the countryside; the farm plots that can be seen are covered with luscious green crops, mostly maize and sorghum, and it seems the farmers are going to have a great harvest this year. Thirty minutes after I woke up, we reach a place called Geralta. It is surrounded with mountains that look like huge, red, obelisks made for God, which I guess they are. At the side of the road there is a man who looks to be thirty at most and another one who looks a little younger. They ask us to stop.

“Are you going to Abune Yemaeta Guh?” one of the men, who is dressed in more “modern” clothing, asks.

“Yeah, are you going there too?” the driver asks the man.

“Yeah, and I’m also going to be your guide,” he says.  Gesturing to the other man, who is dressed in a traditional Gabi (a handmade cloth worn over the shoulders and upper body and made out of cotton, commonly worn by elders) and old dress suit underneath, he adds, “And he is the priest that lives there.”

He looks like he is thirty and he guards the monastery alone? Considering this is the countryside, however, it is not that unusual. Most thirteen-year-old boys in the countryside are deacons, and when they get married, which they try to do as early as possible, some become priests. Sunday School provides the only form of education for some students who live in the countryside. Even when there are accessible schools, however, most parents want to send their kids to Sunday school, just like my parents did. But I, being stubborn and not wanting any form of school on the weekends, refused. Even if I refused to go to Sunday school, it was mandatory that I go to church in the morning. I didn’t hate going to church; in fact, I really liked it.

The sounds of the rattling tsenatel, the beats of the Negarit and most of all, although I could not understand a word of it, the beautiful voices of the people performing Mass in Geez (a language formerly spoken in Ethiopia but now only used by the liturgy of Ethiopian Christian church) was like a serenade. But mostly the Mass gave me a feeling of serenity and a sense that I was a part of something far greater than myself.

After five minutes of walking on foot, we reach the bottom of the mountain. The priest opens the gate to the path that goes around the mountain and we begin the journey. The walk up the mountain is an easy hike; the road is like travelling up a staircase that just does not seem to end. After thirty minutes of hiking, my legs start to cramp and my face is covered in sweat. Luckily, the priest tells us to rest under an olive tree that is covered with termites but is still standing.

“You should pray under the tree; it is as old as the monastery and was planted by Abune yemaeta himself,” the priest says, and we do that. Then, as if it’s common knowledge, he adds, “It is said that when the tree dies, the end of the world will be upon us.” We then see that the tree has no leaves on one side and is covered with termites.

“I guess we better prepare for the end of the world then,” I say and Nahom laughs.

We rest for about ten minutes and we start the trek again. An hour later, we run out of stairs and I find myself staring straight at a cliff. The guide catches up to us and I ask, “So where is the rope we are going to climb on?”

He straight up laughs out loud; I have no idea why. “Do you see those ridges on the cliff?” I nod. “You are going to climb on that.”

To get better friction between the cliff and ourselves, the priest tells us to remove our shoes. As the sacrificial sheep, I am told to go first, and I start to put my right foot on the nearest ridge. “Put your left foot there,” the priest tells me, and I do what he says. When I am about fifteen feet up, my legs give up, and I start to pray to every saint there is—how typical. Sometimes I think we only think of God when we need something as if he’s like a genie to grant our wishes, but when we get what we want, we don’t even care to say thanks to God—what poor servants we are. But as people say, “God is good,” and I sure pray he does not let me die on this cliff.

 

Oct 29, 2020  4:00 PM

In our home two days after seeing the termites on the olive tree, we encounter a different frightening swarm. “What the …. Is it seriously raining right now?” I ask, bewildered. It turns out it is raining; it is just not water. I open the window and see one of the most frightening things I have ever seen—a disgusting head of a locust is stuck in my window; when I look outside there is a whole swarm of them. The sky is completely covered by a cloud of bugs, bugs that completely destroy anything green in their sight. The buzz of the swarm is probably the scariest thing I have heard till now; the sheer loudness of it is enough to get toe to toe with the loudest monster truck. Frozen to the floor, I stand there doing nothing.

Unlike me, everyone else is making as much noise as they can to scare away the swarm, a technique that has been used for generations. When I muster up the strength to go outside, a single locust almost hits me across the face. Taking that as a warning shot, I return back inside.

Outside, my five-year-old brother is clanging some metal cans and shouting as loud as he can; I swear sometimes he is more of a man than anyone in my whole family. Feeling ashamed that I’m not doing anything, I grab a metal rod that was left from the roof construction in our house and a stray piece of metal. With all the power I have, I strike the metals against each other again and again, joining the fight against the common enemy. After some time, as if they could hear our cries, many cars emerge with their horns blaring and clanging metals; we drove them out of the city. Even though our clanging metal and the many blaring car horns managed to drive them out of the city, it is too late: most of the crops in the countryside have already been destroyed.

 

Nov 4, 2020  2:00 AM

I wake up at one in the morning to a strange sound, a distant “boom.” I try to turn on the lights, but nothing happens. Blackouts are very common, and I think, “The transformer must have short circuited.” I reach for my phone to turn on the flashlight and I see that there is no signal. “That’s weird,” I say to myself and then go outside.  I hear an explosion followed by something that resembles a thunderstorm, but there is no cloud in sight. At that moment, my father wakes up and comes outside as well.  “Huh…I guess it has started,” he says.

After my cryptic conversation with my dad, I force myself back to sleep.  I wake up again at five a.m. and I try the light switch, but as I expected, the electricity is still gone, and my phone confirms that the connection is also gone. With no source of information, I turn to my last hope of knowing what is happening right now: the radio. I turn on the old banged up radio my grandfather used to own and I realize that the news won’t start for a whole hour. During this time, I decide to catch up on reading for my math class.

I am unable to finish even one page because my mind is going haywire with all the things that could have happened: “Maybe the nearby telecom station had a fire, or there was a malfunction of some kind”; “what if it’s a freaky accident and the energy station also caught on fire?”; “what if the government cut the power and connection too?” but why would…. Of course, that is what my dad meant…the WAR has started.

As there is no power, I go to the living room and turn on the radio again. “Breaking news! The Tigray regional administrative council has announced that the northern division of the military post has agreed to aid the Tigray region in everything it faces right now and will not, in any manner, aid the totalitarian government. For the purpose of the security of the people, the regional government has passed the following rules until further notice: No plane shall pass through the air zone of Tigray, and if the rule isn’t respected, there will be reasonable consequences; the travel of any military officers is completely prohibited; all transportation from outside and within the region is prohibited; all military personnel that decide to join our cause will be treated well and will face no hardship.”

The next thing I hear is laughter, my father’s laughter I did not even hear him come in. How can he find this funny in any way? This is a life-threatening message, and he is laughing. “What’s so funny?” I ask, kind of disturbed. He simply says, “We are going to win.”

Doesn’t he know how to count? The population of Tigray is at most ten million; the population of Ethiopia is one hundred million! We are ten percent of the total population, if we are lucky, and right now we are completely surrounded from every direction. Even if we are in the northern-most part of Ethiopia, Eritrea is to the north of us and the alliance they made with the Ethiopian government is for this very reason. There have been growing tensions between Tigrayan officials and the Ethiopian government because of the removal of Tigrayans from government positions. Plus, there is the memory of the war from twenty-two years ago with Eritrea, which was fought over land demarcation; I think the Eritreans are still mad about that.

“Just how are we going to win?” I ask.

“Seventy percent of the military is found in Tigray, so if the Tigray forces manage to get them on their side, they will surely win,” he says, and there is hope in his eyes.

Misery needs company and I go to wake my brother Kalab and my cousin Adonay who came to visit for a week from Mekelle, the capital of Tigray; I guess Adonay will be staying with us indefinitely. “Hey, wake up there’s a war!” I say to wake them up fast.

Almost at the same time they say, “what?” I tell them everything and add some.

“Oh man, I hope they make me a sniper,” my cousin says, giddy with excitement.

However, my brother, Kalab (our names are pronounced differently in my language, just to clarify), says, “I better start doing some cardio because if they come looking for recruits you won’t see where I run off to.” He is joking, but there’s truth behind that.

When we are eating our breakfast, I try to see what everyone is thinking. My dad still has that knowing smirk, a smile that says, “I have seen this all happen before and I know who will emerge a winner.” Which, yeah, he does know. Thirty years ago, the Tigray Peoples’ Liberation Front (TPLF) won the seventeen-year-old war against the dictatorial regime of Derg (the provisional military administration from 1974 to 1987). Even though I don’t know why, I know my father didn’t fight in it.

The look on my mom’s face is fear. And I seriously can’t blame her; three of her five children look like they are above eighteen and even if we weren’t, it doesn’t matter during war. If there is a shortage of soldiers, she knows what it’ll come to, and so do all of us.

My brother and my cousin either have not comprehended the level of the threat or they should win an Oscar for their amazing performance.

Somebody says, “I can’t believe all of this is because of an election.” I had zoned out of the conversation and I didn’t hear most of what was said. Although the stigma and hatred towards Tigrayan people has been increasing the past few years, the cause for all this was an election. From what I know, the federal government ordered that the election be postponed and the regional government was like,“Oh please, just watch me.” And from my point of view, I don’t think that’s a war-worthy cause. The reason for postponing the election was to reduce Covid-19 cases. However, there was not a significant increase in Covid cases after the election, and the people felt it was more important to choose the leaders they wanted at this time. But what happened after that is a completely different story. The central government removed all members of the House of Representatives with Tigray origins, stopped any Tigrayan from leaving the country, and cut off the government funding to the region. So, when you think about it, the war was inevitable.

The electricity and network are both off and I suspect the water will be shut off as well. So, to get as much as water as possible, we fill up any object that can store water—jerry cans, pots, even plastic bottles. “Go and see if your grandparents have heard and tell them to store water,” my father orders me and my cousin, Adonay. Meanwhile, my mother is checking how much teff (a grain used to make injera bread) we have. At times like this, the price can go up by thousands.

On my walk to my grandparents’ house, we hear two faint sounds of explosion.

“Did you just hear that?” Adonay asks.

“No, I think it’s your ears.” I am lying.

When we reach the house, my grandmother is watering the plants she grows in the field. She gets up from where she was sitting in a shaking manner; old age is getting to her.  “Wait, let me bring you something to eat,” she offers.

“It’s okay, we just came to tell you to store water.”

“Did they say it will be gone for a while?” she asks.

“No, but with everything going on, it will be gone for a while,” I tell her.

“What do you mean by ‘with everything going on’?” She must have not heard, so I tell her that there are some problems between Tigray and Ethiopia, downplaying it, of course.

“It is happening all over again. We had thirty years of peace and now it’s all gone,” she says with a worried face, “as if the seventeen years of war we spent wasn’t enough so we have to do it all over again.”

“If it comes to it, we will just go to war and kill some guys,” I say in what is supposed to be a joke.

“I didn’t send your father then and I certainly won’t let him send any of you.” After she says that, I ask why my father did not go to the war.

“Well, I wasn’t going to send my only son to the war and most of his friends that went are now buried in the fields they were in,” she says. I guess it is as simple as that. The good thing this time is that they only take volunteers over the age of twenty-five. After convincing her that this will be over soon, I leave Adonay back in our home, and go to my parents’ shop to help there.

There’s not much work here; all banks are closed and almost nobody has enough cash on hand for electronics, not just electronics but for any necessity. During the uneventful afternoon the only sound I hear is the loud blast of the sirens from the ambulances and some cars moving around.

For just five seconds an ambulance stops in front of my parents’ shop and I see it: a dead body. It is a woman in her early twenties, dark skin with splashes of blood; they covered her with leaves but the leaves must have moved from her face. Her eyes are open and they are staring directly at me; they hold no expression at all, just blank, dead. Just as suddenly as the car stopped, it starts moving and it’s gone just as fast. What now? I decide to return home and spend the rest of the day asleep and convince myself that it was just a dream and not the abhorrent reality of the world we are in. But I do not do that; I must help here.

It’s been two hours since the ambulances stopped surging through the streets and now many trucks have decided to replace them—trucks filled to the top with crates and men in Ethiopian military uniform.

“What are they carrying?” I ask whoever is nearby.

“Guns,” is the reply I get.

All these trucks are carrying guns; do they even have that many soldiers? I find myself looking at the people and all of them have the same expression: pride. And so do I. I know it is unreasonable and dumb, but I cannot help but feel proud; this is not just guns. It is proof that if the situation calls for it, we have the means to ensure our safety. People are saying that the government military didn’t even try to defend most of the military camps, the Ethiopian soldiers simply joined the Tigray Defence Force, and now they have most of the air defense. The good news just keeps on coming.

A broken generator that was to be sold for parts was fixed and now it is turned on in our house and most of the neighborhood is eagerly waiting to hear the news. The prime minister, Abiy Ahmed, is giving a speech: “…today’s operation was one hundred percent successful, and we have attained all the camps that were taken by the terrorist group TPLF and we have information that we sabotaged all their attempts…”. What the…? Did I seriously hear that? But I saw the whole thing. That’s a complete lie. We check all the other news channels and they all say the same thing. Just how much of the past news has been a lie? I honestly have no idea.

 

Nov 6, 2020 11:30 PM

Last night the Parliament decided that the region of Tigray was in a state of emergency and that the region was to be ruled by the military for the next six months. And went on to say that the military has the authority to do whatever it wants to the people during this time and rid the people of any human rights they had. The morning today is eerily silent. It seems the afternoon will continue that way.

Sometimes I think the universe likes to prove me wrong, as it does just now. Out of nowhere, I hear a whistle unlike any other. A whistle anyone can identify if they have ever seen war movies: the sound of a military jet. I go outside to determine whether I should make a run for it or just duck and hide somewhere. I see the jet and it is flying no more than ten stories high. It flies past us, but before I can thank god, there are three consecutive explosions and the sound of the jet is gone, leaving just smoke from the area it attacked.

We first try Tigray TV: ”Breaking news! There has been an air strike on the outskirts of Mekelle…”.

“But did not they control the air defense? ask, my voice barely audible.

” It takes time to set up,” my father answers. “And they said the attack was on the outskirts, not the city,” he adds to calm my cousin, Adonay. Still I don’t think that’ll help calm him down; the only thing that might help is hearing his family members’ voices, but that’s not possible.

 

Nov 11, 2020 10:15 AM

During our way to work, we see people, a lot of people, stranded. They came from Humera, a town 200 miles away. (Transportation was briefly allowed three days ago. Afraid his parents were worried, we sent Adonay back to his home in Mekelle.)

The people that fled Humera don’t know where their families are. The sight was heartbreaking: parents looking for their lost children, kids crying for their mothers and begging people for food, people covered in dirt and the cars they came in smeared with mud (to stay hidden from military drones).

We ask them what happened to them. A man, who has many cuts and bruises, says, “The city was attacked from every direction with heavy artillery, and we ran with whatever we had with us. Many couldn’t make it out alive and have died on the road.”

I decide I can’t see any more of this and go home to sleep at 10:00 am.

 

Nov 17, 2020 11:00 PM

It has been six days since I charged my PC and it’s almost dead. Shire (a town an hour away from my home town) is currently being bombed from all directions, Shire is only 40 kilometers away from here and I believe we will be next. I feel like my days in this world are limited.

 

Nov 20, 2020 8:30 PM

The day starts off normally. I wake up, eat breakfast, and play cards with my friends, and take a shower.

What is the worst thing that can happen while taking a shower? Whatever you are thinking can’t be worse than hearing an explosion, while in the shower. Rattled by the sound, I put on the closest clothes I could find and headed out to see what exploded. Turns out it is a house that was hit by a cannon or a bomb.

My mom, out of the blue, says,” Change your t-shirt!”

“Why?” I ask, completely thrown off.
“You are wearing red, change to something brown or yellow,” explains my mom. During an air attack, the worst thing you can do is wear white or red clothes (according to my mom).

For about five minutes there is no sound, just complete silence. Suddenly, I hear a loud boom, closer and louder than the last one. At this time my two older brothers and my grandfather come home. I hadn’t really noticed that I was worried about them until they came home.

After the second explosion, there are continuous shots and explosions. People start packing bags and running to the nearest forest, hill or the countryside. Idiots! They don’t see where the explosions are; they only hear them. Most shots are targeted randomly at the hills and forests. In this moment, a hero would try and tell the people to stop and return home; I didn’t. I freeze and watch the bombs hit the hills and stand in shock with my ears ringing while the dirt rises up to the sky like big mushroom clouds and leaves giant holes on the ground. Kids are being dragged by their parents, and the parents are not thinking—just running out of instinct with no destination in mind, as long as it is safe.

The explosions don’t stop; they only get louder and louder and now we can hear gunshots. My mom, scared, tells us to hide downstairs and we do as we are told. At this moment the soldiers are only three houses away. No matter how many action movies you watch, nothing prepares you for the sound of a tank firing 60 meters away. The walls on our house are shaking and my ears are ringing like hell; thank God my mom was covering my little brother’s ears tight. During the twenty minutes of blazing guns and continuous explosions, nobody says a thing. When people are at their most scared, they do not scream or cry; they stay silent. Even my five-year-old brother, who could never stop talking, is silent and does not shed one tear.

At this moment, I kept trying to think of anything else, trying to escape reality. I kept going to my “safe place” in my mind—the technical drawing studio in my old school—and thought of the only person who truly made me happy. Hmm…if only this was real. I wasn’t in my dorm having fun with my friends, I wasn’t with her and feeling like anything is possible. No, I was 60 meters away from soldiers who were shooting at everything that moved.

After around twenty minutes, the tanks and heavy artillery are getting farther from our house and we hope it is all over. But no, things are just getting started.  After a moment of relief, we hear footsteps approaching.  My mother and grandfather take my sister and my older brother upstairs; me and my little brother stay downstairs with the other tenants. My brother decides to fall asleep downstairs with me at that moment, and I am glad he did.

I do not know what it is like for my mother, having three sons who are old enough to be executed. The soldiers have been executing any boy older than fourteen and I’m already seventeen with two older brothers. I don’t know if they would kill my dad. Just then I remember that my dad isn’t with us. Was I really so scared for my life I completely forgot about my dad?  I must be the worst son a father could want. Where could he possibly be at this moment? Thump…thump…thump, I hear footsteps just outside the gate. Bang! The shot wasn’t aimed at our house, thank God. Five or six gunshots at a time were being fired, so close.

After a while, the soldiers stop shooting and go towards the city. When things settle down, I go upstairs to my family. Afraid I’d worry my mom, I ask my brother about my father. He says he doesn’t know where he had gone to. So, I keep my mouth shut. However, when the sun is setting, I can’t keep it to myself and ask my mom, “Oh god! He was with his friend. They said they were going to come back soon.” I knew she was on the verge of breaking down but she did a good job of hiding it. My little sister, however, wasn’t as skilled at hiding her emotion and she ran off crying to her room. A moment later she fell asleep, crying. I go to check on my mother and say, “Do not worry. He probably stayed over at his friend’s house, which is the safest place he could be in at this moment. We should just lock the gates, and sleep. I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow morning.” I did not believe a word of what I just said. But my mom seemed a little more relaxed, so she went to bed too.

My older brother doesn’t sleep that night and neither do I. He spends the night praying to every saint, every angel and, of course, to God. I am not that big of a believer, but that night, I beg God to bring my father home safe. Sometimes I think we only pray when things are out of our control—at least, that’s what I do.

The next morning, I am awakened by a frantic knock on the gate. I run down the stairs and open the door. It is my grandmother.

“Where’s my son? He’s dead! OH MY GOD! My only son is dead,” she keeps repeating. Nothing we say can calm her down. “Tell me where his friend lives. I’ll look for him myself!” she says. My mom instead tells her to return home and she would look for him. My grandmother agrees and she waits with us.

After five minutes, my mom comes back from looking for my dad and tells us that the soldiers told her to go back home. When my mother returned, my grandma told us about what had happened the previous day. She was alone in her house and she sat just under the wall. The soldiers came in through the door shooting at everything without seeing who was inside, and missed her. My grandmother could do nothing but fall on the ground and clutch her head. They came inside, told her to get up, and told her to stay inside. She says they missed her by five centimeters.

After four dreadful hours, we hear a knock on the gate. Everyone we know was already in the house, so we don’t know who it could be,

“Who is it?” my mother calls out.

” It’s me. Open the door.” It was my father’s voice. I don’t remember who opened the door. My father was okay. He didn’t have any injuries, bruises or anything. He just looked tired.

“Where were you?” was the first question my mother asked.

“Aksum. I’ll tell you all that happened, but bring me a glass of water and I’ll need to rest,” my father answers. We had hundreds of questions and I swear that my father’s nap was the longest nap anyone has ever taken.

“We were going to pick up some things from Aksum, and every one kept telling us that everything was safe there. However, when we went there, we literally went straight to them. ‘Stop right there!’, a soldier told us. Every armed vehicle you could imagine was there, and the men had snipers aimed at us. ‘Get out of the car!’, one of the men ordered. We did as we were told. ‘Just finish them off right there,’ said another one. I was certain I was going to die. ‘They are civilians. Search their car. if they have any weapons kill them.’ Thank God, we didn’t have any weapons. They told us to go straight to Aksum. While we were there, some other guys stopped behind us. When they were told to stop, they tried to run. They didn’t go five steps before being shot and dying on the spot. We didn’t look back; we stayed the night in the car. The next day my friend stayed with his car. I came back here on foot, and I’m still tired.” If staying alive through all that wasn’t an act of God, I don’t know what is.

We don’t leave our house for four days. Every day we hear of new people that were killed, beat up, and women that were raped. My younger siblings are told not to leave the house by any means. I and my older brothers were to stay clear of the main road, to never run if we see the soldiers, and to never defy their orders.

We usually buy groceries weekly from the market. There is no market that week. The farmers didn’t come to the market with their produce. They knew the soldiers would take the food and take their money. The ones that came sold the items at three times the original price. We couldn’t do anything but buy at that unbelievable price. We didn’t have electricity and cell connection for a month, but now the water was cut off, too. Bottled water was being sold like crazy– at twice the price. We stored some clean water and with the bottled water we bought, we had enough to last us two weeks. We get water for cleaning and bathing from the river. My brother and I each carry two twenty-liter jerry-cans and go to the river twice.

I know I should be grateful that I am alive, that my family members are safe, and that we have food, but I cannot just forget how it was. I still remember what it’s like to be afraid to do errands, to worry if someone’s dead if they are late, to stay closed up in my house with no sense of security, and most of all to hear of relatives dying in the streets and being unable to give them a proper burial.

 

Dec 07, 2020   3:00 PM

Yesterday was my birthday. Most people think of their birthdays as if they are beginning a new year, a fresh start on life. I don’t think that’s true.

I do not like celebrating my birthday. However, my mother, for whatever reason, decided to celebrate it this year. In the middle of an outright famine. I’m not sure if it could be called a birthday party, though. We only have popcorn, and coffee with all the family.

For my birthday, instead of blowing a candle, I watch the remaining part of the biggest factory in Tigray burn to ashes. This wasn’t the first time it was targeted, but the first attempt didn’t destroy it completely. Most people in my hometown make their living from the company, either directly or indirectly.

We did not even try to stop the fire; it was all gone. We had lost the things that kept us alive, hope and faith.

People reacted to the conditions with one of two ways. It either strengthened their faith in God or it convinced them that there is no God. The ones with the faith kept thanking God for allowing them to survive through all this misery; they kept praying for mercy. They did not have any control in their lives, so they kept praying for the situation to change, to have a semblance of control through God. And then there were the ones that were convinced that God either did not want anything to do with them or did not even exist. They were in the worst place to be alive; they witnessed cruelty that no “good God” would allow to happen. They stopped believing in an entity that kept watch of his creation, and they went with the logical deduction: God does not care about what happens to us. Suddenly, I remembered the words from the priest in the monastery. He said that the tree would fall when the world ends, so I wonder if that tree is still standing.

Regardless of our beliefs, however, all of us had nothing. We did not have food; most people were biting sticks to stop their jaws from locking, the ones that had even a little grain were afraid it would not last them a week. We did not have medicine; most people with underlying diseases were either dead or dying, women were giving birth in their homes, and a lot of women died during childbirth. We didn’t have information; we had no clue if our loved ones were even alive. Now, we do not have the faith to go on with our lives; we do not have the faith that this will all be over anytime soon.

 

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