Imagine a people who were once free, now reduced to a shadow of their former selves. Their land, once fertile and nourishing, has become a field of ruins under the assaults of a racist army and merciless mercenaries.
Each village bears the scars of the passage of these executioners: burned tents, ravaged crops, poisoned wells, rivers soiled by the blood of the innocent.
The cries of broken women echo in the accomplice of the world. They are hunted, reduced to prey.
The children grow up in terror, their laughter replaced by tears of hunger and fear.
The old people, witnesses of a past they no longer recognize, slowly die, deprived of everything, even a last look of tenderness.
The massacres follow one another, methodical, implacable. It is not just about killing, but about erasing the last vestige of a people.
Ethnic cleansing is the rule, the scorched earth policy an irrevocable sentence.
Those who flee are hunted down, those who resist are crushed.
And yet, in the midst of this nightmare, a glimmer persists.
In the eyes of a starving child,
in the hand of a mother clutching her last-born, in the fist of an old man shaking with rage.
Because a people can be wounded, but never erased as long as they carry memory and hope within them.
The people are decimated alive.
The images above bear witness to the presence of the Fama-Wagner couple somewhere in Azawad.
They illustrate the daily lives of wounded peoples.
Tohima Ag Liblina 10-02-25
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