 "Photo: Saul Elbein")
JERUSALEM, Israel - When the bombs began falling on his neighborhood, the helicopter gunships sweeping down across the dawn like black metal vultures, Adam Ibrahim ran away. He heard the gunshots across the street, the shattering glass, the screams that went on and on and suddenly stopped. He didn't wait around. He ran out of the house without stopping to look for his family, and ran, and ran.
Adam is a Darfuri refugee. He lives, for the moment, in a refugee camp in the southern Israeli town of Sderot. For four years, the world has heard stories of what is happening in Darfur. I had the chance to stand face-to-face with Ibrahim, and he told me stories of how the janjaweed, the Arab nomad militias, rode into his village at sunrise, masked and waving machetes. They burned all the huts to the ground and shot or hacked to death all of the cattle, along with those people who could not run.
As a Westerner, it's hard to really feel the power of his story. We've heard such accounts so many times before that we know the end before the story even begins. And it seems all too romantic. When we hear about the masked marauders sweeping out of the desert, we are swept from reality into the brutal, exotic land of the Arabian nights. We see desert warriors riding through the dawn on horseback, banners waving in the morning breeze. We are lost in the pounding hooves of the horses, the noble savagery of their riders.
Before I continue with Adam Ibrahim's story, take a step back. Forget the cattle and the horses and the grass huts. Imagine if marauders rode into your community. It wouldn't be familiar or romantic at all.
The government's bombings began that morning at around 4 a.m., jerking Ibrahim out of a deep sleep. He rolled out of bed, the bombs coming closer. He choked on the smell of smoke and cordite. Across the street, his neighbor's house was ablaze, and screaming rang from inside. Slowly, unsteadily, he rose to his feet. Still stunned from the bombs, he heard gunfire rattling in the distance, and a woman was begging in a high voice, which suddenly fell silent. Then he saw unfamiliar men riding their Jeep down his street, firing indiscriminately.
Imagine for a second trying to move, as he described to me, but you can't. Your body tingles. This situation may seem like a dream, but in a dream you wouldn't taste gunpowder on your tongue. You wouldn't hear cries and thuds of bullets hitting bodies. You wouldn't smell burning.
The men approached Ibrahim's house, yelling in rapid Arabic. He ran to the window to see them jump off their horses and walk toward his house. He ran out the back door - leaving the screams and gunshots behind. Only once did he look back, and that last glimpse will stay with him forever.
Later, hiding in a creek bed outside the town with other survivors, he heard their tragic stories. The survivors returned and spent two days burying bodies, and then everyone scattered. His parents and siblings aren't among the survivors, and he hasn't seen them since the attack. They might be in a refugee camp someplace else, and Ibrahim remains hopeful.
Imagine the guilt, wondering if you could have saved some of those victims. You might have been killed, but you could have tried instead of running away. For Ibrahim, it's too late for that.
Since that morning four years ago, he's wandered from city to city, country to country, sometimes by bus, usually by foot. Often with no material possessions, he's carried guilt and memory heavily on his back. He's used to being a stranger, barely able to communicate, with other refugees as his only companions. Imagine not knowing where you will be tomorrow, whether you'll eat or whether you'll be safe.
This is Adam Ibrahim's story. It isn't yours, but just for a second, pretend it is. Imagine that last view of your street, on the morning everything ended - when you looked back to see the burning against a new day, flames melting away the sunrise like the end of all tomorrows.
Elbein is a Plan II and journalism junior.
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