“Just keep marching on! We’re almost there!”
The man had been shouting this for hours now. Yet the mountain seemed like it never came any closer. Our feet dragged more with each step, exhaustion wearing us down. The cold rain seemed to seep down to our bones, freezing our hearts. The atmosphere was thick with defeat, and this weather was the perfect backdrop for our retreat.
Our village...the home I had grown up in was gone. Burned to the ground with nothing but ashes left behind. The raid started in the middle of the night. Everyone was sound asleep in their beds, only a few militia men on watch duty. We were a small, quiet village, one that was often forgotten and overlooked by those who ruled the land in the capital. But we were okay with this. Our lives were simple, and we were happy.
Suddenly, screams rang out through the clear night, mixed with the sound of raging men. They laughed manically as they pillaged and set fire to everything in sight. They slaughtered most of the men. They raped most of the women. And most of the children were captured to be sold into slavery.
My name is Wynette, and I am 14 years old. My mother is — was a seamstress and my father was part of the militia men. We lived in a small house towards the center of town, close to the market. I spent most of my days helping mother in the shop, but I would often sneak out to watch my father with the militia men. They trained every day and looked so brave.
However, on this day, their bravery was put to the test. I saw the men I looked up to so much cry and scream in agony and terror. The sound was unlike anything I had ever heard before. It echoes in my ears even still.
Even so, I’m one of the lucky ones. But is it lucky? To have been able to escape the horror that befell our village? How can I, or any of us, continue on from this day knowing that our lives, along with the people who filled them, are gone? All of us were filled with such despair, and guilt. Survivors guilt. All of us were grateful that we had been able to escape. But all of us felt guilty for being grateful. Why were we allowed to survive, but our mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends, why weren’t they?
My mind was plagued with questions, fears, doubts. None of us were particularly special or important. So why? The village wasn’t either. So why?
Those men who raided us in our sleep, when most of the guards weren’t on duty, they were cowards. Horrible, monstrous, cowards.
Suddenly, all the fear, doubt, and guilt I felt vanished. Or more so was buried. Now, I’m filled with an overwhelming rage. Every muscle in my body halted. My blood began to boil as a fire lit in my freezing heart. A fire like the ones that burned my home to the ground. And...I began to cry. This time, they weren’t tears of sorrow, but rather tears of pure frustration. If only I had been a man. If only I had been big and strong like my father. Maybe I could have helped some of my people. Maybe I could have been able to fight back. But instead I coward under my bed in fear as the raiders came in and dragged my mother out of the house. I laid there holding my breath, hands covering my mouth, eyes squeezed shut, listening to my mother scream to be let go. I could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that angers me more than anything else.
Am I angry at the men who raided my home? Yes. I’m filled with such hatred I could make the devil himself shudder with fear. But I’m more angry at myself for doing nothing. But not anymore...
From this day on, I’m not going to do nothing. I’m going to step up and fight back. Starting with getting my people to the mountain, where it’s safe and we can start over. It’s still at least a two day trek, but I won’t rest until my people, the only family I have left, are safe. And I will continue to fight even then. And one day, I don’t know when or how, I’m going to find the men who destroyed my home and make the pay for what they’ve done. I’m going to find them and rain down justice for my parents, my friends, and the village that raised me with so many joyous moments. Those memories...they will be my fuel, and my guiding light. They are how I’m going to keep my people alive.
Gritting my teeth, glaring at the ground with the rain beating down on me, my resolve became stronger than ever.
“You heard him! With every step we get closer to the mountain! With every step, we get closer to safety! Let’s keep moving!” I started to run, my feet slamming the ground splashing up mud and water. I ran ahead of the group of survivors, shouting the whole way that we will live again! That we will make a new home! That the mountain represents hope! It’s our hope. At first, they looked at me with empty eyes, glazed over with sorrow. But eventually, my words penetrated their frozen hearts. And with looks of hope, stubborn determination, we marched onwards. We are going to get to that mountain. And there, we will begin anew. I will begin anew. For my mother. For my father. And for my home.
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I haven’t written anything in a long time. I just haven’t been inspired lately. So tonight, I decided to write. I had no idea what I was going to write or where it was going to end up, but I just wanted to do it. I felt like I needed to. I don’t know if it’s any good, and frankly I don’t care if it is. I just feel proud of myself for finally doing it. I feel like I accomplished something.
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