Monday, October 20, 2008
from God and his Demons
December 5: This morning, I woke to the gruesome sonance of death. Horror seemed to be everywhere, banqueting freely on human flesh like a vampire. From the mission house, we could see as smokes of burnt houses ascended to form an alliance with the grizzled cloud. Shouts of terror, wailing sounds of guns and Arabic chanting became so regular, it nearly twisted one’s brain. Later, when the terror seemed to have subsided, father went out to see what was going on. I volunteered to go with him but mother would have none of it.
When he returned about three hours after, he did not come alone. He came with so many families who brought with them tears of sorrow and loss. Father announced to us that the Jihadists have declared war on us. Christians in Zaranda have been marked and their blood will the shed. This is happening because a Corper seized the Holy Book from a boy who was caught chanting a verse during his lesson.
Some of our visitors slept inside the church while the rest flooded the mission house. These innocent people have lost in a minute what they have gathered in years. The evil in men is indeed like a pit of hell, it swallows first the soul of good men and if it likes, makers of agony. Isn’t that injustice?
December 6: The nightmare lingers. Am writing this journal in the bush a few distance from our house. Am trying so hard not to fall asleep like mother and the maid. I love the untainted melody of the birds quite all right but tonight, their voices torture my soul.
Am alone with mother and our housemaid. Father is not back yet. Our exodus to the bush began two hours ago when we heard that the Jihadists are heading towards the church and the mission house. This news scared our visitors and they all fled in panic. We fled too, the bush was the only alternative. Everywhere was on fire. Father went back to see what happened.
I decided not to say my prayers today. Why should I honour God when innocent people are dying because of his Holy Book? If God can allow so much blood to be shed on his account, then I want to dishonour him. Mother will call this blasphemy but I don’t care. Am still waiting for thunder to flash from heaven and strike me down. Can the thunder of God be more vicious than the wrath of these wicked men? Goodnight. I hope I will not wake up in hell.
December 7: the bush is still our home; father is not back yet. We could feel the terror heavy in the air. The battle out there is nothing compare to the hunger raging in my stomach. We ate nothing other than unripe mangoes plucked by me.
December 8: we left the bush when the news came that our governments have intervened and the violence is over. On our way home, we found the streets deserted, still brimming with fierce fire of destruction. Burnt cars littered every space; most of the houses have been reduced to mere debris. The few people we met are full of tears, their faces pasted with helplessness.
My heart beat faster as we neared our home. The entrance gate had disappeared. While mother and the maid made for the church, I ran towards the mission house. I couldn’t recognize it. The glasses were shattered and the walls scotched.. I entered through the living room and found that its beauty had disappeared, burnt by the fire of madness. With tears blurring my eyes, I ran towards my room, hoping to see my journals and its sweet memories, hoping to find my simple paintings intact. My hope became dashed as I entered. Everything had disappeared.
I was still coming to grasp with my loss when I heard mother screamed. I dashed inside the church, and there he was, kneeling on the altar, still holding on to his Bible, which was already burnt beyond repair. My father, Rev. Babayanmife Crowther, was fried like a fish fresh from the river.
Right there, I knew my journey to the world of unbelief has started. I wanted to run away from God. To run away from him and his flesh eating demons in human flesh. Goodnight. I don’t care if I wake up in hell!