Born of Amalek

I die here in the baking sun, praying in vain for Baal to preserve us. My hearing

fades, at last, against the screams of the women and children.  I see my own

lying next to me. How difficult it was for us to bear and feed the grandchild,

yet how easily they slew her.

 

Most of them give chase to those who fled the village. I know not how far my

kindred ran before falling. The older soldiers move from house to house,

seeking out the frightened and striking them down without a word.  

 

I understand a siege upon their old enemy. We killed them often to preserve

our place in this land.  But I am wise enough to know–since this time they

even kill our animals–that this is no war for land or resource. They kill from

hate. They break every potshard, shaped with the loving hands of mothers

and wives and inscribed with the thoughtful knife of the archivist. A swift

motion breaks each pot, and the memories are gone. Our mark upon this land

will be severed forever.

 

Some time ago I made a grave for myself, where one day my kin would be

reminded of where they came from. But I will never lie there. They will have me

rot where I have fallen. My kin will not live. No one will remember.

 

The sun glints off a bronze blade as it comes down upon something. They

will liken us to beasts. They will say we had no honor. They will defile our

traditions They will say their god Is strong. They will say their god is merciful.