Delia Rojas was thirty-two years old when the Uprising of the Consolidated Blocs began. She was not a soldier. She was a librarian. And when the bombs fell on the Meridian Library, she picked up a broken radio, a pistol she did not know how to use, and a waterproof ledger book. She called her project A Record of Delia’s War —not out of ego, but out of the desperate need to put her name on something that would survive her.
Delia’s war is not glory. Delia’s war is carrying a child through a city that wants her dead.” “Lin is gone. Not dead—I don’t think. Taken. A Bloc patrol kicked in our hideout door at 4 AM. They wanted the radio. Lin threw it out the window before they could grab it. Smashed on the pavement. But they didn’t know that. a record of delia's war
A Record of Delia’s War is now held in the National Archive of Civilian Testimonies. It is not required reading. But it should be. Delia Rojas was thirty-two years old when the
I have written 847 pages. Some are soaked in rain. Some in blood. One in coffee—that was an accident. And when the bombs fell on the Meridian
I started this record to survive. Now I think I finish it to remember. Not just the horror—but the fact that a librarian and a fourteen-year-old girl with a spoon outlasted an army.
Before the war, I returned library books a day late and felt guilt for a week. Now I’ve taken a life—not directly, but I helped Lin drag a wounded Bloc deserter into a sewer. He died there. Infection. I held his hand. He said his mother’s name. ‘Maria.’
I am not brave. I am just here. And I have a pen.