It will never stop

A woman, a people, suffering with a historical burden too heavy to bear...

"How can I live while they survive?"

Her haunted eyes look away, their blackness showing a deep pain.

"They took away my past and replaced it with racism and death. They filled our lives with fear and pain - which is still there, still represented today.
How could they call themselves superior when they caused this mass-destruction? Did they still believe in their superiority when they torture innocent people?
But there is an answer. We weren't innocent for them. We had caused the poverty, the hunger, the humiliation. One people, responsible for an entire country's fate.
So they may have been convinced that what they did was the right thing. They killed people who were not innocent, who had been the cause of all evil, who deserved to be killed.
But how can a six-year-old child do such a thing? How can that child be the key, the problem? And how can that child be the solution? What does killing that child solve?"

Her eyes wander restlessly around the place as she speaks with a firm voice.

"Their actions have marked my present. Not a day goes by when I'm not reminded of it. Every day my family and friend are on my mind. How can I forget? How can I forget the murder of millions of innocent people? People persecuted for anything that marked their identity, or not even that?
How can I forgive those, who are still alive, whose ideas live on in people's minds?"

A tear falls down her cheek. Her voice trembles, but she talks on.

"My history formed my life, even before I was born. It will determine the lives of many after me. And I ask you, would you want to live with that legacy?"

She looks straight at me. I want to reach out, touch her, comfort her. But something tells me this is not the right time.

"They say desperate times call for desperate measures. And people were, and are, desperate. It can happen again, sooner than you'd think. And people won't listen to the voices of the past. They will blindly follow their own ideas, until they have caused the same level of mass-destruction. Then they will stand still and think: "How come I have done this? How come I have believed in this?" But then it is too late."

She grabs her shirt to stop her hands from shaking. Her tears are falling freely now.

"It will never stop."

Author's Note

I'm not sure where the distinction lies between historical fiction and historical non-fiction, but for the sake of it, I'll assume this is fiction.
Moods like the one I wrote this in creep up on me many times. This was just one time when I needed an outlet, and it became this.
I'd greatly appreciate any reviews. Did I get the woman's feeling, her restlessness, across well?