Personal Narrative: Genocide

It's a Friday afternoon, I plan to go to Great Wolf Lodge in an hour with my church. I see one of my friends so he says to his mom “ Hey, that's my friend” I said “Crap” So I go inside to sign in to go and see my friends just sitting in a corner on a big sofa. We are listening to music and just talking then a green bus comes.

I have lived in only one location my entire life: Edwardsville, Illinois. A peripheral suburb of St. Louis, it stands as the rare oasis of people in a desert of corn, pinned in its own personal bubble. Due to this blend of time and isolation, I developed a natural familiarity with my hometown. But, throughout my childhood, I longed to break free from the confines of the bubble and venture outward. However, this changed last summer, as I walked through Richards Brickyard, our family heirloom, that my great-grandfather, Benjamin Richards, founded over 120 years ago. I felt these childlike sentiments slip away. The bubble that had surrounded me for so long began to vanish, and the picture that it had been obscuring was slowly revealed.

It is true in life that everything happens for a reason. It is also true to say that sometimes it is all about being in the right place, at the right time. There was never a more prominent example of this than a traumatic summers evening, only a few years ago.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." These famous words written by Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence have been used as famous reference points and evidence to support women's suffrage, segregation, and many other movements trying to equalize all human beings. What if I said that millions and millions of people are not only being denied the opportunity to liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but are being denied the opportunity to the greatest right of all, Life? These people are the hundreds of thousands of babies being killed in the world each and every day without the chance to ever grow up to have liberty, happiness, or even life. I believe abortion is wrong.

[T13]Man, I think I'm getting something else besides a cold. I hear this voice telling me this all a video game. This entire world is something I signed up. If the voice is going to talk, then tell me how to get out of here. I either getting sick or crazy if I am hearing voices inside my head.

The phrase ‘history repeats itself’ is applicable only to learning from experiences. Mass genocide, world revolt, corruption on a governmental scale. Such things are put away from us now aren’t they? Surely no one does those things anymore, right? Such was the argument of my sheltered mind. After all, to awaken those haunts from the past, would be a regression of the now established world would it not? It would be horrendous, it would be uncivil. Funnily enough, none of these rationales meant anything as I witnessed these monsters of mass genocide, revolt and the like, who I had long thought had been laid to rest, ravage and in a bloodthirsty massacre steal the lives of 34 minors.

numb as if it want real. While all this was happening the lady who had hide us came and told us

She carries symbolic bracelets and tangled up headphones and torn playbills. She carries crumpled sheet music, a highlighted play script, a rusty gun and holster, an old calculator, worn out journals for writing fragmented lyrics, passionate feelings, unforgotten memories, and so much more. Twice or three times a week she carries packets of law and a lunch that was packed that morning. She carries a water bottle that is always half empty, or much like herself, half full, depending on how you see it. Wyatt carries the priceless shark tooth necklace she gave him, locked away somewhere unknown. Hannah carries the cheap but meaningful books that she gave her, unread but still valued. Her mother carries the candy she gave her, hard but sweet, a reflection of her soul. Something they all carried in common, was that they all carried something that was given; taking turns, they carried pieces of her shattered heart.

A genocide usually starts when people of one race or religion want to dispose of people of another race or religion. The underlying causes of conflict, which result in acts of genocide, often have deep historical roots. Stereotypes between groups develop over centuries. Ethnic and cultural differences often result in the formation of "in-group" and "out-group" thinking. Members of different races, religions, or cultures start to view each other as separate, alien, and “different.” In many regions, members of these different groups develop conflict prevention methods because they feel threatened. Relations begin to degrade because of this feeling of threat. This leads one group to become convinced that many of the problems they face are the other groups’ fault. One group then begins to believe that all their problems would be resolved if the other group no longer existed. A desire to exterminate the other group arises because coexistence and power sharing are not considered to be options. The group committing the crimes will believe that extermination is justified. This then leads to the violent acts of genocide.

I noticed multiple zombies on the horizon and slowly brought out my buck knife. Then it was more than a couple, it was four, then six, then ten, then twenty. Tommy screamed that we needed to get ready for fight. I quickly snatched up my knife and put it in my belt, grabbed my mom’s old snub nosed pistol, put my small hammer in my hand and knelt like a sprinter before a race. Tommy was prepared with what looked like fire arrows. Hayden and Joey were ready to. I fired all six of my bullets, six zombies went down. I pulled out my hammer and charged. The next few minutes were a blur, zombies dying left and right, blood all over me and my face, I screamed wildly. There was fire everywhere. This was for my Mom and Dad, my sisters, and for my friends. I was killing as many as I could but the more I killed the more came to take their place. My hammer was peeled from my hand, so I pulled out my throwing knives, I had five but only two limpers went down. With my strength fading I grabbed my buck knife and slashed a zombie in the face. Then I realized I had made a vital mistake. I had wandered to far into the hoard, they were all around me. “No!” I screamed “I…*pant*..can’t die….like THIS” I expected a new magical strength to fill be but it didn’t. I felt furious pain in my left hand but couldn’t look down to see it. I pushed through and got out of the

Your post reminds me for my own story. I was born refugee. My dad did almost the samething. It was 1970s when his country had civil war, Hutu and Tutsi. This war will stuck in people’s mind. My dad was an international student in Rwanda from Burundi. He found himself fighting for his life when the rest of his family was in Bururndi. The only communication he had was by mail. His family did not have any information and internet was not available either. This actual take me to recently issue that happened in Burundi. Because tecknology and media, things became easy to find. There was a coup organized in Burundi and many people yes died but the media exposed everything to the world and then the coup failed. If it was back then

It has been one whole year since I have last seen you. It feels like an anniversary, yet all I wanna do is sit and cry. I miss Kalianne so much. She didn’t deserve to be shot, especially at such a young age. She barely started her life and here these soldiers are, ending it before she could even truly begin. There have been rumors that the Khmer Rouge is coming to my refugee camp. I wish to leave and go find you and Meh but I am too scared. I fear that if I even attempt to escape, they will shoot me on sight. I want to stay strong to keep your memory alive, but I’m trying so hard and I still seem to be failing. Being strong in this camp means being able to pull a trigger without thinking, but once the gun falls in my hand, all I can think about

I grew up in a very poor neighborhood hood, so everyday for me was difficult not knowing if I will eat or sleep on the streets. I can remember the moment where my father abandoned my mother and I. I was very young at the time I had just turned 7 years old. My father and mother had a very unhappy relationship it was very easy to tell they were not happy. I remember it was a Monday, November 4, 2002 my mother was staying with my aunt because my aunt was diagnosed with cancer and my mother was helping her out. It was my birthday I was so excited that day because I was suppose to get a gift from my father. I woke up that morning ran quickly to his room to find him not there, I ran outside thinking he was fixing his car or just rebuilding the birdhouse

When an individual asks “What was a moment that has changed you forever”, it can be extremely difficult to answer. Such a broad question brings up many notable moments that widen an already large selection of memories. But, if I had to pick one that makes me smile every time I look back onto it. It would by my very first concert. It was not only my first time seeing my favorite band live, but it was also my first real experience seeing music played live. Reflecting on all the laughs and memories I made that day only assured me that I would remember it forever. The stories that came along with it are also quite fun to tell.

Across my life I have split my time between Canada for the school year, California in the summers, and my birthplace of Hong Kong during holidays. These three places are like unique and distant points of a wide triangle. Hong Kong is fueled by modern technology set in a highly urban setting, contrasted by a deeply traditional culture, with values focused on revering elders. Canada offers a rather provincial lifestyle complete with eco evangelists, ice hockey prowess, and great pride in not being annexed by the US. As for the US, people are multi-cultural, independent and admirably patient in queues – particularly while standing in line before the gleaming edifices of museums – built to represent the cultural level they wish to be known for.