A young boy in Somalia named Butrus cries over his mother’s corpse. While walking down a dirt road carrying food to her children Aziza came face to face with a jeep full of armed militia. Despite the guttural catcalls and sexist ranting Aziza held her head high and turned her face away. She was less than a kilometer away from home when the jeep full of vile soldiers stopped. The young woman found herself immediately on the ground and six men roughly ripping at her clothing. Each of the six men body slammed her against the hard earth and each of the six men raped her, not once, but several times until spent.
Aziz’s vagina had been cruelly ripped, so damaged blood poured between her legs as the soldiers stared at her with disgust. They laughed and sneered until the man with the longest beard aimed his pistol at the beautiful Aziza and pulled the trigger. The band of vagrant militants hastily jumped back into the jeep and rushed away blowing dirt and rocks onto the body of their victim to further debase the body for which just moments before, they hungered.
Butrus heard a shot and saw in the distance an upheaval of dust. He feared for his mother and his two sisters, but ran towards the ruckus in spite of danger. He found her. There before him was his life, his future, and his only security. His mother’s corpse covered with dirt and blood stared vacantly into a vacant universe. Such is life at the hands of hate. Butrus’s story is over. His sisters’ story is over with the cynical smile of starvation bearing down on the small children with each day that passed.