The Red Desert

A story of the genocide in Darfur

“ What happened?” the reporters asked, the film rolling quietly behind them. Sunlight glinted in the boys’ eyes, revealing a terrifying story behind those endless pools of black.

          “It was a nice summer day.” He began. “My brothers and I were doing chores, our mother cooking in the kitchen.  The empty sand stretched out in dunes as far as the eye could see, and the hot sun baked my torn clothes. Suddenly, right before my eyes, a huge dust cloud started moving my way. Looking closer, I see forms among the sand. Shadows stretched far away, presenting us with a feeling of dread. The radio had given no news, just snippets of conversation and a lot of static. However, we received our news

from the weary travelers who came to our small town. They told us of hired men who had been riding the dunes on horseback and taking out small villages like my own. These people called themselves the Janjaweed. They were quietly and efficiently wiping out many small, Darfur villages. A helicopter appeared out in the distance, and the label on the side told us that the Sudanese government was behind this. The men on horseback were closer now, pulling out AK-47’s and guns of that nature. The helicopter unleashed a spray of bullets, and blood splattered my vision. My mother screams from inside the house and I see men shooting at us, and many people fall dead, the sand soaking up the blood immediately. I stumble forward, and excruciating pain ran through my body. I looked down to see 3 bullet holes in my side, blood spurting out in globs. My hand clasped the wound and I tried to hold my guts in, I tripped over a small rock, and fell down hard in a small crevice a few hundred yards away from the massacre. The last thing I saw was my mother, lying dead on the ground, a pool of dark blood around her head, and my once lively village in flames.

          The news reporter, wearing a CNN cap and a leopard print shirt, was staring intently at the boy. “Here, I have a book.” The boy said. The reporters’ hands clasped it and he flipped through the pages. They were a child’s drawing of the incident. The boy pointed, showing the story in the pictures.

          The reporter thanked the boy, stood up quietly, and then left the small tent. He headed for the reporters van at the other side of the camp.

Author's Note

I wrote this a while back and felt like uploading it. Tell me what you think.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Such horror, this man's inhumanity toward men. Will it ever end? Excellent writing.