I had a dream of a man from a different country. He was black who looked old, wearing traditional clothing and had a decorated cane. Just to warn you before you read on this dream hurt my heart, I woke up crying.
He was over seeing some men in an old blue truck, dumping dead bodies out onto a pile. There were dug up graves in the tan dusty dirt on the other side of a tree waiting for the dead bodies. The old man seemed to be praying while this was going on.
It was hot there. This place had bushes in the background that seemed to not produce anything in particular. For such a dreary scene the sun was a beautiful orange orb just about to go down upon the horizon.
Once the old man noticed that I was there he slowly walked up to me and started speaking in his own language. At first I didn't understand him, so seeing that I was confused he prayed a prayer and I started understanding.
He said, "Lord, grant her understanding so that I can speak to her. My God is the same as your God. I am something like what your culture would call a watcher at the gate. Here you see my people from a little village getting ready to be buried. Just like your culture, mine were unrightfully destroyed. In my village I am the only one left."
I had a feeling that this old black man understood the stories that I got from my mother. When my mother would go out subsisting in remote Alaska, my grandfather would tell her, "There used to be a village called _ here where _ (number) of people used to live. They died because of..." Then I woke up.
With this dream I got a confused message; to know that my culture is not the only one out there being mistreated and that someone out there understands my cultures predicament.