Another gut-wrenching write by my far-away sister in South Africa, for the thousands of men, women and children being slaughtered.
My dull heart thuds and drowns out the sound of the newspaper page being turned. We have lost another tiller of the soil, while the world slumbers, feigns ignorance and denies apathy. You know my maiden name, the guttural implications of my heritage. I cannot deny what moves through my blood on wagon wheels. Here, I must stay, far from you and your open windows, for my kind are not yet, perhaps ever, to be granted sanctuary. Your world does not wish to know the truth of mine… perhaps it is an impolite one to acknowledge in politically proper company, or there is a prize to be gained at the cost of our future. I am a child of the African soil, having walked upon it, eaten it and from it, all my life. Pray God I do not rest beneath it before my body is ready. Pray for us…
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