Yes, I know, she’s from Hays Minor in the Otomak system, but Hays Minor was a poor mining colony, a frozen wasteland only settled for its mineral resources. Even before the First Order took it over and systematically destroyed it Hays Minor was a harsh place, with no indigenous animal species and temperatures so lethal people couldn’t go outside without special protective suits. It’s not the kind of place where people dream of raising their families, but someplace people go because they have to make a living–and, if they have young children, because they have nowhere else to go.

And what was Jedha known for? Force religion, sure, but also for mining kyber crystals. It would have been home not only to believers and clerics, but also to skilled miners experienced at extracting these invaluable resources. And also to violent partisans, of course, a backlash to the Empire’s anti-religious repression and ruthless exploitation of the area’s resources, but for now let’s look at more ordinary citizens just trying to go about their lives.

Imagine you are a miner on Jedha.

You were fortunate enough to survive the blast of the Death Star. Maybe you escaped into space like the Rogue One crew did, or maybe you didn’t live in the Holy City–maybe you were working on a mine elsewhere. Even if you were not in the City or its outskirts, though, you have to get out eventually because the blast is breaking the whole moon apart, kiling your world. You’ve lived on Jedha for generations and have no ties anywhere else. Where do you go?

The galaxy is wide, but the reach of the Empire is long. The stigma of being from Jedha clings to you and comes back in the form of refusals to let you settle, even violence from the authorities or from neighbors. Maybe one of the excuses is that you’re a terrorist, because your origins are associated with the memory of the partisan zealots who held out against the Empire in a mountain fortress until their violent ends.

Maybe you settled on other, more hospitable planets only to be driven out, losing everything you built and barely escaping with your life. Others were not so lucky. Maybe you learned to change your dress and customs so you would not stand out, learned never to talk about Jedha so you would not draw unwanted attention. Even your spouse might not know, if you met them after Jedha. (All things in your life are divided into before and after Jedha.) Maybe your spouse is from Jedha, too. Maybe you met them in the diaspora, which is bittersweet because you never would have met and fallen in love on Jedha. The two of you agree that it is best to stay silent about the home whose name still echoes in your hearts. Survival comes first.

You never talk to your children about Jedha. You don’t tell them what the ceremonies you hold from time to time mean, religious ceremonies from home that you carry on in secret, mourning what can never be again.

Maybe you even fought in the Rebellion yourself, finally free to shout and scream and sob the name of Jedha when you run into battle, a cry for justice. It hurts every time to say it but you do it anyway, letting the name tear your throat and your soul, Jedha, Jedha, Jedha, so you will not forget, so the world will not forget.

Maybe, despite using the name as a rallying cry, the other Rebellion fighters did not always look kindly on you and the other Jedhan fighters. The whispers of “extremist” and “fanatic” still cling to you, and the same people who say “May the Force be with you” to each other may find your ways in the Force strange. There are a thousand glances and words that cut and every time you have to wonder, is this because I’m Jedhan? You try not to be so sensitive. You pick at the meanings behind meanings, trying to disentangle the threads that trip you up. You hope for a better galaxy anyway, and that’s what you’re all here for no matter where you’re from, right?

When the Empire collapses you rejoice and weep, and say a prayer of thanks. There can be justice at last, and better days for the Jedhan refugees. The New Republic promises to do right by you and the Alderaanians, to all the people who lost everything to the Empire.

The promises, fragile and hollow, break under strain. You, like much of the Jedhan disapora, are vocal against the truce with the Empire’s remains, warning they’ll be back. You are called warmongers and extremists. You and your fellows ask for the New Republic‘s assistance with resettlement, demand that the Empire officials’ riches from the lifeblood of your people and peoples elsewhere be returned to the Jedhan diaspora and so many others displaced by the Empire. You are called greedy and a nuisance.

You are still not welcome anywhere, and if anything seem to be an inconvenience to a universe that wishes to move on and forget. You drift, body and soul, without a home, and survival becomes increasingly more pressing as your family grows.

Then you hear about a mining colony far out in space–an inhospitable place, a deadly place actually, but they’re looking for people and they can use your skills. Maybe you even hear of it through the refugee grapevine, and other Jedhans are going so it’ll feel a little like home. Nothing will ever be home, but it’s a living and a community. You could do worse than that.

So you raise your daughters on a frozen planet, in a shelter specially shielded to keep the planet from killing you all. You watch them play in the artificial light, happy and smiling and alive, and you are content. You are luckier than many, so many that you will carry to your grave.

You don’t talk to your children about Jedha, the old fears locking your lips, not wanting them to go through what you had to as a Jedhan. When you and your spouse make them matching medallions you tell them they represent the twin planets of Hays Major and Hays Minor. In your heart of hearts you think of them as being Jedha and NaJedha, orbiting each other even in ruin. You hope your daughters’ lives will be better, not touched and tainted by destruction as yours was. Maybe that’s another reason you don’t want to tell them about Jedha, because you don’t want that shadow over their lives.

And Hays Minor has been good for your family, after all. Your daughters can do worse than think of a community of courageous, hard-working, honest people as home. This is enough. Not perfect (not Jedha, never Jedha) but enough, and maybe you’ll save up to move to a kinder planet where life isn’t quite so harsh, a place where your eldest can see and touch the animals she’s always talking about, where she and her sister can stand in the sun and breathe unfiltered air.

Your dreams and your heart shatter when a Star Destroyer blots out the sky over your home a second time. They will be back, you and your people warned the galaxy. You just didn’t think, never let yourself imagine, that they would come for your home and your family first. Not again.