University of Massachusetts Boston - Beacon Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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Watching a Bab Die When she was forced out of her mother's womb, the newborn baby screamed bitterly, reluctant to join a hostile world. She desperately located a couple of shrunken breasts with her hands, only to learn that she was not going to survive for long. The mother had no milk, but she was able to welcome the new guest with salty tears that the baby swallowed without even questioning where they came from. To an Eritrean student from the drought-stricken and war-torn Horn of Africa, this tragedy is not just news that he comes across in the daily paper or on TV, but a reality that he had seen, a fact of life he has learned to accept. Even when he comes to the West, under the pretext of getting an education, the ugly memory haunts him. Often he finds himself wondering if he should have stayed at home and helped. He feels guilty, for he knows that while the innocent cry for help, he goes to school in a country whose leftovers could feed not only the babies in his country but the whole continent as well. Sometimes he wishes he could establish an organization that would channel leftovers from his new home to his old one. He knows that the hungry children would never notice the odor of rotten food. He also knows it wouldn't be possible anyway. lt was a preposterous idea that occurred to him when he saw a huge pile of plastic bags full of leftovers waiting to be collected for dump- ing. How he wishes the truck would empty its priceless contents near the famished children. He knows of course, that his thoughts are naive. He knows the longest war in Africa, the Ethiopian-Eritrean war, has been raging for more than 23 years. He knows the indifference of the Organization of African Unity and the United Nations to the politics behind the war. He also knows the famine was not caused by drought alone, but also by the failure of the interna- tional community to come to grips with the national question of Eritrea. At the moment, however, all he wants is one thing: to feed the baby. Yes, the baby that he saw on TV the other day, the dying baby who almost shook her head in disgust when she caught his celebrating Christmas while she died of hunger. He felt like spitting out his food when he saw her on the screen. He immediately put away his plate, and before he knew it was crying again. What do you want me to do, he asked the dying baby as if she could hear him, and waited for her reply. A few moments later he realized that she did not answer because she needed the breath to survive a few more hours. He tried to go to bed but the face of the baby lingered in his mind. In desperation he begged her to leave him alone and she refused. You thought you'd forget me by simply turn- ing off your TV, but l'll stay with you as long as my weak heart is beating, she told him. Even if l die, she warned him, l'll stay in your mind for the rest of your life. He wept profusely when she opened her mouth painfully and cried, Tell everybody that l'm not a Marxist, I don't even know who Marx was. l just need food. - Russom Mesfun tThis article, written by Eritrean UMass!Boston student Fiussom Mesfun, originally appeared in the Boston Globe. - Ed.i

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Blackman in a Browns tone He returns from a party where he stood in the corner Camouflaged by the potted plants. You seem to look natural standing there. lust like a savage She told him. And he walked out with not so much as a word of thanks to his host. He walks home black and suspect. Someone for the police to check out and squalk identification over the transistor. lt 's okay charlie he 's a local nigger Occasionally he would call me to come to the city and compare nightmares. Singled, alone, caught in the wide-eyed Well-read community of brownstones. The odors of the street outside, The bleached walls that surround us. The constant wondering of who we are. His neighbor comes over to tell her problems Flirting her white body a little longer than she should, her eyes making suggestion. Hoping his bed will suffice for plantation hay. lt 's not like I don 't have a boyfriend. And she quickly excuses herself We step out into the midnight to smoke a joint on the fire escape. He says he has had enough of it and he jumps over in a blinding blur. T. I. Anderson