We didn’t sleep much. We never slept all at once. Our fears allowed only intermittent slumber. Plus, bondage taught us never to close both eyes. Someone was awake during every hour of the night. Often, it was so still we heard our hearts beat. And rats rush across our feet. Yet we were too devastated to care. We knew that, at any moment, we could be snatched away so we tried not to be caught off guard—again. We took turns watching over each other. Sometimes, during the night, watchers would whisper in secret:

“Shall we survive this?”

“We will survive. We always have.”

“But never anything like this.”

“True, but we are more than we know.”

“Maybe we aren’t.”

“We are.”

And, just like that, the exchange would end and both faces turn away. When one would give up, the other would provide encouragement enough to dismantle despair. In this way, the nights crept by. We heard voices sometimes, loud, drunken slurring voices, and saw forms stumbling along cobbled paths but, of course, we said nothing. Their merriment, framed by our misery, was always curious, as we wondered how human beings bypassed suffering so easily. Perhaps that had been our error. To ascribe them humanity they’d never proven. The ancestors were right. Our lesson was not over. Yet if they weren’t human beings, what were they? They walked and talked and breathed as we did. Of course, they were humans! They were simply blind ones. They could see only their own people as precious, only their own as worthy of liberty. They, too, were in bondage, but of the spirit. And, sadly, they didn’t seem to care.

Each morning, sunrise left us disappointed. As children, we’d sat at the edge of the village, with gatekeepers and farmers, anticipating the moment bold light dashed across the sky. It thrilled us to watch night escape at the threat of day. When the sun eased onto its throne, we marveled that this ball of fire could scatter light all over the world without consuming any of us. Most days its rays were so bright we’d have to squint to observe it. We played a game called “chase the light” where we’d hide behind small trees and run as streaks of light moved with the sun’s rising. After many years, we could predict moves so meticulously we’d jump to the exact spot where light landed. We knew even that it moved differently depending on the season. Nature was our playground. It teased our senses and taught us the essence of God. We rarely wasted time with objects. Instead, we bounded around trees and across open plains as our minds tried, though ultimately failed, to understand the mind of God.

In the stall, when the sun rose, our spirits diminished. Another day meant another loss. Rays of light broke through cracked walls and warned us to get ready. Someone would be gone by sundown. It seemed that the sun was weaker here—not nearly as bold and brilliant as ours had been—or perhaps it was our joy that had weakened. Either way, the sun’s rising brought dread instead of ecstasy, and we longed for the day when, once again, light brought delight instead of dismay.