My mother, she had insisted for me to read. She wanted my brother to learn as well, but my need to read was dire in her eyes, for she had not learned to read until her mid-20s, which caused difficulties in her life.
And so, she had found us an underground teacher, a woman not much older than me. I never learned her name, she never learned mine, but she took a huge risk just teaching a handful of children, and because of her, we are educated. She is gone now. Killed by the government.
No, it’s too soon to think of that without bursting into a torrent of sobs. I used to have dreams. I wanted to be a reporter. I would travel far away and write stories of other people. It would be an unrealistic dream for any girl, especially an orphan. I sighed. It was a heavy word, orphan. Not quite as heavy AS dead, or gone, or alone, but still heavy enough I got this feeling I was going to start crying. Again. When the man in the beat up uniform came to our pathetic lump of a house, I knew what it meant. My dad,