She held her crying son by the hair a foot above the ground and slit open his throat. There was a final jerk and then blood spurted to the walls and covered the wooden floor of the old nipa hut. I stood there motionless as the morbid scene developed its finality, I registered its permanence whilst my mind stood over the wall of incoherent and uncommon response that bordered between understanding, for I would have done the same; and fear, for men would judge without understanding.
She has a dozen of children and not one was born on the same month. Her children have no name and are designated by the cardinal number of their birth, they wear nothing and have unkempt hair. They moved with their heads bowed and their lips pursed as if aware that it is not the dying, but the living that defeats us.
- May 13 2013 | - Read More →