---Names on Paper
Morning came like nothing was wrong, and that was the worst part.
The sun rose, the chickens crowed, and smoke curled from cooking fires as if the day before had not cracked something open in the village.
I woke to the sound of my mother sweeping the compound. Her movements were steady, almost stubborn. She did not look at me when I stepped outside.
"Eat," she said, pointing to the bowl on the stool.
I shook my head. Food felt like an insult.
By mid-morning, the square was full again. Not with soldiers this time, but with us. Elders sat in a tight circle, their voices low. A single sheet of paper lay on the table between them, weighted down by a stone as if it might try to escape.
The list.
People gathered in clusters, whispering names before they were spoken aloud. Fear passed from mouth to mouth like something contagious.
When the eldest man stood up, the village fell silent.
He read slowly.
Each name landed like a stone dropped into water. Some caused small ripples. Others sank deep.
My father's name was there.
So was Sadiq's uncle.
So was Musa the tailor.
So was the boy who used to race me to the stream when we were children.
A woman cried out when her husband's name was called. Another covered her mouth with both hands, as if holding the sound inside could change anything.
"They cannot take all of them," someone said.
"They can," another replied. "And they will."
I felt something hot rise in my chest. Anger, sharp and unfamiliar. It scared me more than fear ever had.
At school, the classrooms were half-empty. Mr. Bello stood before the blackboard, chalk frozen in his hand. He tried to teach us history. Dates. Treaties. Names of men who made decisions far away.
I wondered if they ever imagined us while they signed their papers.
During break, Sadiq sat beside me under the mango tree.
"My uncle says they will come again," he said quietly. "At night."
I looked at him. "For who?"
"For the rest."
That evening, the village met again. This time, the voices were louder. Younger men argued. Older ones warned them to be careful. Resistance was a word that hovered in the air, heavy and dangerous.
I went home early. I opened my notebook and began to write.
Not poetry. Not stories. Just facts.
The date.
The names.
The truck.
The uniforms.
The list.
I did not know why I felt the need to record everything. I only knew that if I didn't, someone else would rewrite it later and call it something kinder than it was.
Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, an engine growled.
And for the first time, I understood that history was not only something that had happened.
It was something still deciding.
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