his bladder released, and he urinated all over himself.
Lifted into the sunshine, the boy saw that the hand belonged to his grandfather, and he was overwhelmed by relief. He threw his arms around the old man and hugged him fiercely. His skinny little body began to shake violently. The boy sobbed, without making a sound, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks and onto his grandfather’s bony chest.
The old man held the child and let him cry. When the boy finally stopped shaking, his grandfather slid his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and wordlessly they turned their backs on the killing field and began the long journey back to the remnant of their family. They had traveled less than a mile when the two heard an approaching vehicle and quickly hid in the undergrowth on the side of the dirt road. But they continued their journey as soon as it had passed. It hadn’t been a band of raiders as they’d feared. It was merely a lone jeep with a white man in it, a camera dangling on a strap around his neck, his blond hair blowing in the wind.
Chapter 3
R on didn’t say anything for a while and Olford was quiet, too, trying to get his arms around the enormity of the horror Ron described. When Ron finally spoke, he was still so stunned by the scene his mind had painted in the air in front of him, his words came out flat and emotionless.
“I counted the bodies. Not a single survivor—219 villagers—pregnant women, little kids, old men were shot or hacked to death when they tried to claim the United Nations’ ‘humanitarian aid.’”
Ron moved back to the window and looked out with un-seeing eyes. His voice was a tired monotone.
“The government has launched a full bore ‘scorched earth’ campaign against the south. It’s open season on every man, woman and child who lives there and every cow, goat, hut and stalk of grain, too.” He stopped and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and index finger. “And anybody who survives the carnage is hauled off to the slave traders and sold to the highest bidder.”
Olford took a sip of his tea, then set the cup back in its saucer on the bedside table.
“When the truth finally gets out about the bloodbath here in Sudan, they’ll have to exorcise demons from the international conscience for the next decade.” He shook his head. “And the press hardly says a word. Are all those chaps daft or blind?”
“I really don’t know.” And he didn’t. Here was the biggest story of the century, and his colleagues ignored it. “I can’t speak to the daft part, but I’m here to tell you that I’m not blind. Got both eyes open, even if they are bloodshot. And when I’m finished, this horror show will be coming soon to a theater near you.”
Coming soon to a theater near you . Yeah, that’s part of the why, Ron thought. Oh, nobody ever did anything for just one reason, but that’s where it all started. Only Ron hadn’t seen it in a theater. He’d watched it in his own living room years ago, glued to the television screen in fascinated revulsion when he was a boy. The images had haunted him for years. Human beings sold to the highest bidder. Plundered villages, raped women, brutalized children, separated families, whips, chains and brands. Watching the Roots series in 1977 had been a life-changing experience for 10-year-old Ron Wolfson.
Maybe it had had such a profound impact because he was just a kid, or maybe it was because it was the first time he’d had his nose rubbed in man’s inhumanity to man. Whatever the reason, he was never the same. For months afterward, he’d sit in the porch swing at night and gaze into the star-speckled Indiana sky, trying to wrap his mind around the reality that people actually did that to other people; it really happened.
He’d listened to the swing’s “eek-eek, eek-eek” tear jagged little holes in the darkness and wondered if his own ancestors had owned slaves. Surely not! They lived in Indiana and people in Indiana didn’t
Lifted into the sunshine, the boy saw that the hand belonged to his grandfather, and he was overwhelmed by relief. He threw his arms around the old man and hugged him fiercely. His skinny little body began to shake violently. The boy sobbed, without making a sound, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks and onto his grandfather’s bony chest.
The old man held the child and let him cry. When the boy finally stopped shaking, his grandfather slid his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and wordlessly they turned their backs on the killing field and began the long journey back to the remnant of their family. They had traveled less than a mile when the two heard an approaching vehicle and quickly hid in the undergrowth on the side of the dirt road. But they continued their journey as soon as it had passed. It hadn’t been a band of raiders as they’d feared. It was merely a lone jeep with a white man in it, a camera dangling on a strap around his neck, his blond hair blowing in the wind.
Chapter 3
R on didn’t say anything for a while and Olford was quiet, too, trying to get his arms around the enormity of the horror Ron described. When Ron finally spoke, he was still so stunned by the scene his mind had painted in the air in front of him, his words came out flat and emotionless.
“I counted the bodies. Not a single survivor—219 villagers—pregnant women, little kids, old men were shot or hacked to death when they tried to claim the United Nations’ ‘humanitarian aid.’”
Ron moved back to the window and looked out with un-seeing eyes. His voice was a tired monotone.
“The government has launched a full bore ‘scorched earth’ campaign against the south. It’s open season on every man, woman and child who lives there and every cow, goat, hut and stalk of grain, too.” He stopped and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and index finger. “And anybody who survives the carnage is hauled off to the slave traders and sold to the highest bidder.”
Olford took a sip of his tea, then set the cup back in its saucer on the bedside table.
“When the truth finally gets out about the bloodbath here in Sudan, they’ll have to exorcise demons from the international conscience for the next decade.” He shook his head. “And the press hardly says a word. Are all those chaps daft or blind?”
“I really don’t know.” And he didn’t. Here was the biggest story of the century, and his colleagues ignored it. “I can’t speak to the daft part, but I’m here to tell you that I’m not blind. Got both eyes open, even if they are bloodshot. And when I’m finished, this horror show will be coming soon to a theater near you.”
Coming soon to a theater near you . Yeah, that’s part of the why, Ron thought. Oh, nobody ever did anything for just one reason, but that’s where it all started. Only Ron hadn’t seen it in a theater. He’d watched it in his own living room years ago, glued to the television screen in fascinated revulsion when he was a boy. The images had haunted him for years. Human beings sold to the highest bidder. Plundered villages, raped women, brutalized children, separated families, whips, chains and brands. Watching the Roots series in 1977 had been a life-changing experience for 10-year-old Ron Wolfson.
Maybe it had had such a profound impact because he was just a kid, or maybe it was because it was the first time he’d had his nose rubbed in man’s inhumanity to man. Whatever the reason, he was never the same. For months afterward, he’d sit in the porch swing at night and gaze into the star-speckled Indiana sky, trying to wrap his mind around the reality that people actually did that to other people; it really happened.
He’d listened to the swing’s “eek-eek, eek-eek” tear jagged little holes in the darkness and wondered if his own ancestors had owned slaves. Surely not! They lived in Indiana and people in Indiana didn’t
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