Dreamed 2014/1/27 by Wayan
I'm a prisoner, condemned to die.
My crime? I organized the first armed resistance against our government. For generations, it's encouraged pogroms against our minority. We just endured them, fearing to provoke worse. Worse than what? Already slow genocide.
Our new resistance has been effective--killed the militia and officials who attacked us. Even now, I've been legally appealing my execution as long as I can not out of any hope of rescue, but just to live long enough to learn the results of our biggest raid yet, across town. With luck, the government will pay for my death a hundredfold--and hesitate to risk that cost again.
My last words: "This is a war, a genocidal war your regime started, and I'm a prisoner of that war. Execute me, a prisoner of war, and you just ensure that we will execute you, too. Until you honor the rules of war, expect to be treated as you treat us. Expect to die."
I have no guilt about killing their cops, soldiers and politicians; they slaughtered us for centuries without fear of consequences. Now they'll hesitate. If not from conscience, from fear.
I don't fear death much. Had I not resisted, they'd have killed me anyway. To me, every day's my last day, and always was. The war's just two-sided now.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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