Black Sunday: The 1980 Garissa Massacre

 The Black Sunday

It has been so long, yet it remains vivid in my mind.

Whenever I recall that day, I feel sick and sad.

I feel helpless and hopeless.

I feel violated and robbed of my dignity.

Again and again, they killed me—they killed my soul.

They raped my sisters and killed my brothers.

They violated our mothers and our aunts.

They robbed me of all that I lived for.

They robbed me of my dignity,

And the dignity of my people.

I shall never forget that day—

The day they took away my love and my laughter,

And sowed the seeds of fear and hatred.

The day they denied me freedom.

The day they herded us like shoats

Onto the Garissa football pitch.

The day they denied us the freedom to worship,

The freedom to speak, the freedom to live in dignity,

And every freedom that belongs to a free people of the world.

The day was Sunday, November 8th.

The year was 1980.

The place was Garissa.

Some call that day Garissa Gubay—

The day they burned our beautiful city of Garissa.

Others call it by another name, Garissa Massacre.

I call it Black Sunday.

I cry whenever I recall the killing of our people—

From Garissa to Garsen,

From Modogashe to Malkamari, to Maralal, Baragoi,

From Wagalla to Wajir-Bor, from Mandera to Mombasa.

I cry for the lost souls.

I cry for homes shattered and burned to ashes.

I cry for lives uprooted

And dreams reduced to dust.

I cry for our violated sisters.

I cry for our murdered kinsmen.

But most of all, I cry because those responsible

Still walk free from prosecution, shielded by immunity,

Protected by impunity.

The criminals who incinerated our brothers,

Who widowed our sisters, who killed our fathers.

Cry with me, for my tears are real.

Cry with me, so these injustices are never forgotten.

Cry with me, so memory may triumph over silence.

But most of all,

Join me in seeking justice for our people—

And through the power of remembrance,

And through the might of my pen,

I reach out to you to join me in this journey of justice.

-Extract from The Garissa Diaries

By A. Irshat