They had survived the war. Not France.

They had worn the uniform.
They had fought far from their homeland.
They had experienced captivity, hunger, and humiliation.
They had believed in a promise.

Then they went home.

They were not welcomed in Thiaroye.
They were herded into pens.
They were despised.

They were demanding what was owed to them:
their balance,
their bonuses,
their dignity.

They were unarmed.
They were not in rebellion.
They were standing.

At dawn, the state spoke in bullets

On December 1, 1944, at dawn,
The camp is surrounded.
Machine guns are pointed at unarmed men.
The order has been given.

We fire.

About those who had fought against Nazism.
About those who were returning from the camps.
On those who demanded justice.

The soil of Thiaroye absorbs African blood.
In silence.

How many died?
35, says the State.
70, say some archives.
Even more so, say the unmarked graves and the families without answers.

The truth is buried with the bodies.

After the massacre: reversing the blame

The survivors are not receiving medical care.
They are arrested.

Judged.
Convicted.
Accused of mutiny.

The dead are erased.
The living, broken.

Silence becomes political.
Forgetting becomes a strategy.

Thiaroye is not a blunder

Thiaroye is not an accident.
This is not a mistake.
This is not an excess.

It's a message.

You can die for the empire.
But you will never be his equals.

Thiaroye reveals the colonial truth:
the hierarchy of lives,
institutional racism,
the variable value of blood.

Transmission

Thiaroye is not a date.
It's a fracture.

A breaking point where many understood
that freedom is not something to be questioned.
She's taking herself for granted.

If Africa has risen up,
This is also because Thiaroye showed the true face of the empire.

**They were soldiers.

History has treated them as bodies.
We call them martyrs.**

BlackArtist — Transmission
Memory is not a luxury. It is a responsibility.

THIAROYE, 1944

They survived the war. They did not survive France.

They wore the uniform.
They fought far from their homeland.
They endured captivity, hunger, humiliation.
They believed in a promise.

Then they returned.

At Thiaroye, they were not welcomed.
They were confined.
They were despised.

They asked what was owed to them:
their pay,
their bonuses,
their dignity.

They were not armed.
They were not rebelling.
They were standing.

At dawn, the State spoke in bullets

On December 1st, 1944, at dawn,
The camp was surrounded.
Machine guns were aimed at unarmed men.
The order was given.

Fire.

To those who fought Nazism.
At those who returned from camps.
To those who demand justice.

The ground of Thiaroye drank African blood.
In silence.

How many died?
35, says the State.
70, say some archives.
Far more, say the unmarked graves and the unanswered families.

The truth was buried with the bodies.

After the massacre: reversing the crime

The survivors were not treated.
They were arrested.

Tried.
Convinced.
Accused of mutiny.

The dead were erased.
The living were broken.

Silence became policy.
Forgetting became strategy.

Thiaroye was not an accident

Thiaroye was not a mistake.
Not an excess.
Not a misunderstanding.

It was a message.

You may die for the empire.
But you will never be its equal.

Thiaroye exposes colonial truth:
a hierarchy of lives,
institutional racism,
Blood is valued differently.

Transmission

Thiaroye is not a date.
It is a rupture.

A breaking point where many understood
that freedom is not requested.
It is taken.

If Africa rose,
it is also because Thiaroye revealed the true face of empire.

They were soldiers.

History treated them as bodies.
We call them martyrs.**

BlackArtist — Transmission
Memory is not a luxury. It is a responsibility.