We ran. We ran as fast as we could. The screams were piercing my ears. I couldn’t look back. I didn’t want to look back. I just ran, with my baby brother clamped tight around my neck, and I didn’t stop until all I could hear was the pounding of our own heartbeats.

We hid in the bush that night, far away from our village, too afraid to go back. Not a second of sleep visited me that night. Instead, I did my best to keep my infant baby brother from crying out. Paralyzed with fear, I prayed for the morning to come soon.

As dawn peeked over the horizon, I pushed our way through the bush. Feeling stiff and exhausted, I stepped out into the open field and slowly turned in the direction pointed back to our village. As my heart hammered against my chest, I put my baby brother on my back and took my first step back home.

As we journeyed to the edge of my once lively village, my anxiety grew heavy and my breaths became shorter and shorter. Now, only remnants existed. It was evident. Everything and everyone, burned. Bullet casings from their machine guns covered the ground and cut into my feet as I kept venturing towards our section of the village. The stench was overwhelming and I found myself choking from the smoke that was still lurking. I wiped the tears from my eyes, and I saw in the distance what used to be my hut and as I moved nearer, my fears became reality.  In front of me lay the remains of my home, still smoldering from the fire, and the burned bodies, unrecognizable, of my mother and father.

I was 3 years old and my baby brother just one. We sat in front of the remains all day and through the night. I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t know where to go. I knew one thing was for certain however… survival was now our mission and our purpose.