It Begins with an ID Card, and: Pastor Yetty’s Story

It begins with an id card

it begins with an ID card marked ET*a bird spreads its wingsamid a tangle of leaves and branches,deprived of the chance to see herselfreflected in the waters of the open seaunder its canopy of skyit begins with an ID card marked ET,ordinary letters you see written everywhere,taught in kindergarten:“children, this is the letter e”“that’s wild,” they reply“and this is the letter t“say it after me: teeee“if we put them together we get eetee,what does that mean?”“a cage,” one of the children spontaneously replies

it begins by marking ET on an ID cardand ends in unlimited power.

Birmingham, Alabama, 1963. The Sixteenth Street Baptist Church after a KKK bombing that killed four young black girls.

© Danny Lyon / Magnum Photos

Pastor yetty’s story

her eyes seemed focused on something far awayas though she was traveling a narrow path back to her childhoodover the sea to her village on the island of Sumbaher eyes filled with tears before she began her story.

“one morning in the cold light of dawnI could hear hymns coming from the jailthe sign of a peaceful acceptance of deathand surrender to our redeemer.”

she fell silent, seeming to turn the pages of her pasta story still alive, held together with fear andanxiety.

“a pastor was leading the singing,as the prisoners, seventeen of them, made ready to be takendown to the beach.”

again she paused,

“there on the beach they were shot dead,after a final blessing and the whispered words—only a moment of pain—they had continued singing, till their hearts were silencedby soldiers whose daily food came fromthe toil of the murdered farmers.”

even in the far corners of our homelandthe blood flows till the rivers floodand bury it in mud.