The Walls Still Wail at Night

There was only one rule: don´t open the door. If broken, everything would be risked. Our belongings, our safety, even our history.

This was the cost of our identity, of preserving who we are. And while some have brushed aside this warning, others instead chose to hide and survive.

My parents, my grandparents, and even those many generations before, had followed this rule with complete understanding and respect. They´d seen the horrors that happened to those who didn´t. But we were just curious kids, tempted by the sounds and possibilities out there. We never would have expected ghost-like demons in black robes to snatch us up like that.

They ripped off our clothes, shaved our heads, and doused us in a white powder that burned from the outside in. They beat us with fists and sticks, and left marks. And they yelled. Always yelled. As if they had never considered they could speak in any other way. Like in a soft way; a good way.

Nokoomis always spoke in a soft and good way, especially as she combed and braided our hair. She´d speak of the strength and spirit our braids carried, and how we must always look out for each other.

When they hacked off my braid I felt something in me sever, and I cried. My brother however was solid as stone, as if he had severed himself from this world.

If only we had not opened that door. If only we hadn´t ventured away from our traditions and land. If only the White Man hadn´t gotten us.