I walked up the hill, and all I found was blackened rubble. I skipped over the stones, and tripped and twisted an ankle. There was a camp for internally displaced people nearby. I saw the white tents in the distance. I walked down the hill towards it. Men stood around in clumps, sharpening tools. They stopped, putting their tools down. “Yes, madam?” “I’m looking for some people. They had a house up that hill.” “A two-storey stone house with black tiles on the roof? A young man and his mother?” “Yes. You know them?” “The attackers threw petrol bombs from the road into their house. They burnt down with it.” The men picked up their tools again. I walked away. Hill, have you seen my tears? River, have you seen the pieces of my heart? Tree, have you seen my mind?
