For the women and children of Darfur
The first thing you should do, Abidseun, is coat yourself with dust.
Don't forget that patch on your elbow, that strip of skin behind your
ears. Here, darkness feeds on the dark.
When you walk, Abidseun, walk like you've been taught-straight and
sharp. Don't count clouds. Don't kick stones. You should know better
than to chase a little bug.
There isn't much wood left to pick, I know. It takes so long for seed
to become fire, and here, there is no water left for growing. So we
look, Abidseun. Because crows feed on those who wait and mouths,
in asking, end up dry.
And if in looking you find a stick in someone else's hands, if in
running you stumble on a stone, if in calling the answer stays
stubborn and far, then that is the time to stare at the sky, Abidseun.
That is the time to close your eyes.
As for me, from the moment your small light steps away to the moment
you return (on your feet? on their backs?), I will be here, Abidseun,
crouched on colorless soil, breath sharp as memory, praying for
history to forget itself.
Michelle Tandoc-Pichereau grew up in Manila, greased elbows in Los Angeles and is currently sharpening her pen in Bretagne, hoping it is indeed stronger than the sword.