The Wind Knows My Name

by Isabel Allende

One dead child, one less guerilla.

The pastors said that God loved everyone, no matter the color of their skin, but rejected sinners. At the end of each service, anyone who needed to forgive or ask for forgiveness was invited to come forward. Half the congregation would move to the front of the church, hugging one another or sometimes falling into states of trance, overcome with emotion. Edgar cried, because he knew he could never forgive the men who murdered his family.

A serial killer has the right to a lawyer in this country, but that right does not extend to immigrants and refugees.

On the trip, he accepted the fact that he would never be able to fully exorcise his demons; he would have to learn to live with them.

“He’s wrong, it’s much more American than people think, Selena. Enslaved parents saw their children ripped away from them and sold off. Native Americans had their children taken away to become ‘civilized’ in horrific state-run orphanages. Thousands of those kids died of contagious illnesses and malnutrition, then were buried in unmarked graves.” “You’re right, Samuel. Here only white children are considered sacred.”