|
|
|
Reading Online:
|
Civil War 2004-04-30, 10:37 a.m. Every morning when my alarm goes off (the first time), I turn on the radio so that I can listen to NPR news. Usually, I fall back asleep and wake up an hour or so later and lazily drag myself to the shower and start my day in a very grumbly mood. Today was different. The first story I heard when I woke up was about civil war in central Nigeria. Civil war, just miles away from where T is right now. T grew up in a large city in Nigeria and is the son of well-educated parents. His family was considered to be extremely wealthy when they lived there, and even more so since they were able to leave and come to the States. He had television and telephones and attended boarding school. He lived a life of affluence in a third-world country and did not know the difference. He left Nigeria when he was fourteen. He’s back there now, visiting family and old friends. He’s coming home this weekend. Civil war, mere miles away from his hometown. Civil war, ravaging his home country and leaving hundreds of people dead. Civil war, in small villages where people don’t have reliable telephone service, so authorities and volunteers don’t even know how many people are dead or missing. Civil war, in a place where millions of people have AIDS, where people are uneducated and poor and unable to provide for their families. Civil war, where babies are dying and adults work themselves to death, trying to make a living from land that doesn’t give life. When I think about civil war, I think about men dressed in replica uniforms. Big petticoats. Straw hats with ribbons around the brim. Muskets. Horses. Burning in the South. Slavery. Abraham Lincoln. Confederate flags. Famous battlegrounds, five-star generals, and regional pride. I don’t think about civil war as a possibility in my homeland in the year 2004. For T, this is not an option any longer.
|