This book exists because there was no way to leave this story untold.
For many years, I tried to do exactly that. I moved forward. I built a life. I learned how to close chapters and live with what came next. But this one never closed. It stayed with me—quiet at times, loud at others—waiting to be named.
I wrote this story first for my children. They know they have only one set of living grandparents. They hear me speak about my parents with love and familiarity, and one day they will ask questions that deserve more than fragments or softened explanations. I want them to know who their grandparents were, how they lived, what they valued, and what they endured. I want them to understand that their lives mattered deeply—not only in how they died, but in how they lived.
I also wrote this for my parents themselves. They never had the opportunity to tell their story. What happened to them reduced their lives to headlines, court records, and secondhand accounts. This book is my attempt to give them their voices back—to honor them as whole people, not as victims defined by one moment.
And finally, I wrote this for myself.
There are stories that can be carried quietly, and there are stories that demand to be spoken before they loosen their grip. This was the latter. Writing it became a way to take something that lived entirely inside me and place it, carefully, into the open—where it could be examined, remembered, and finally allowed to rest.
The events described here span many years, and memory alone was not enough to tell them faithfully. To reconstruct this story, I relied on multiple sources. My own memories form the foundation, supported by blog entries I wrote during my college years, which captured thoughts and details I might otherwise have lost. I consulted legal documents to establish timelines and factual accuracy where memory can blur. I spoke with family members and friends, gathering their recollections of my parents and of the day their lives were taken.
One of the most unexpected sources came years later, when I discovered a small notebook among my father’s belongings. In it, he had recorded dates, encounters, and details surrounding his conflicts with our neighbor—things I never personally witnessed. That journal allowed him to speak into this story in a way I never anticipated. Where his words appear, they are treated with the weight and respect they deserve.
This is a memoir, not a legal brief. It does not attempt to catalog every fact or present itself as an exhaustive record. It tells the truth as honestly as I am able—acknowledging where memory is uncertain and resisting the urge to smooth over complexity for the sake of clarity. Some names appear because they must. Others do not, because they do not need to.
Faith is woven throughout this story because it was woven through my life at the time. It sustained us. It challenged us. At times, it was the only thing holding everything together. I do not present it as a simple answer to suffering, but as the lens through which we tried to make sense of it.
This book is about loss, but it is not written to dwell in despair. It is about land and family, work and inheritance, love and forgiveness. It is about the cost of trusting others, the danger of unchecked darkness, and the slow, difficult work of healing.
If you are reading this because you have known violence, grief, or unfinished questions, I hope you find something here that resonates. If you are reading simply to understand, I ask only that you do so with care.
This story was not easy to write.
But it was necessary.