With her surprisingly soft hands she wipes the tears from my cheeks, but it’s futile. Water is flowing like a river and there’s no stopping it. “Why did it have to be her? Why did they take her, my poor baby sister?”
The men came earlier that day. With their mouths covered by black fabric and their loaded guns. We just stood there useless and terrified. Our hair was filthy and tangled and all we wore was cloths. Their eyes scanned over us, as if they were shopping for a new toy. Which was at least partially true. They took the prettiest girls, of which my baby sister Yasi was one. And there was nothing I could do but watch them harass my Yasi and drag her to their car. One of the girls resisted and ended up with a bullet through her head, the sound still echoed through our heads.
We were with sixteen, now there are only thirteen of us left. I don’t know who should be lucky. Us, who are to live in a shed of six squared meters with one meal of bread and water per day, or them who get to live in a big house with one of those men.