What Remains Within

The genocide began long before I was born, and hiding here in the ruins of my hometown, I’m left wondering whether it will ever end. The invaders that have been gradually eliminating us for decades have now expedited their goals to take away everything from us; in the past three months alone, I’ve lost more than I could count. My family, my friends, my neighbours… Many of them were lost within the billowing black smoke that stained the skies, or under the shattered ruins of our homes that surrounded the few of us that barely survived. It is difficult to believe that the very people whom my homeland welcomed decades ago are the same ones seeking to erase our identity and culture when they, too, faced the same threat all those years ago at the hands of an equally terrifying force.

If there was one thing history was drenched in more than blood, it was irony. The harsh reality of some victims turning into terrorists themselves is a frightening phenomenon—one that I will never comprehend. Yet I still long for a time when this senseless bloodshed would cease, however impossible it may seem. I wish I could just lay in a soft bed and feel the warmth of the sun upon my face, or pour myself a cup of tea and watch my favourite show on the TV. I wish I could just go to school and argue with my friends over trivial topics… Is that too much to ask?

There’s no comfort one can find on fissured floors, nor any joy in the face of fleeting rations. I recall how I used to wrestle with my younger siblings on the ground, fighting over who gets to play with the toys next; I remember Mama baking biscuits in the evening, the sweet scent pervading the entire house and breaking our fights before we even knew it. I would give anything to have those simple moments back—to see them all one more time. Maybe I will soon, I don’t know… I’ve seen countless parents go after their children’s bodies even when they know what awaits them once they walk into those open spaces they would otherwise avoid with what little strength they could muster. None of us ever know when the next echoes of rattling metal will surround us.

***

A year has passed by, and I didn’t even realise it. The days seemed to have blended into a single, long haze. I see fewer faces around me, and I’m running out of places to hide. So many of the beautiful structures that adorned every corner have been reduced to rubble that, everywhere I see, I’m surrounded by fields of ash and soot. Many living things that grew tall and green are now withered and grey, and all traces of soft chirps and sweet mews have all but dissolved in the unbearable silence that pervades the grim air, as if it were mocking each step I take whilst wondering when the next rumbling would shake the earth beneath my feet.

For the past three days, I have kept in touch with a kind lady who bakes biscuits just like the ones Mama used to make. She shared a small space on the surface with her family, while I chose to remain alone in a drain I recently discovered. The lady kept me informed on what little news she heard: today I heard that many people were speaking against what is being committed against us, even though the majority either remained silent or stood with the invaders. I’m glad I heard the former; it’s perhaps the best birthday present I could ask for right now.

I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like if Mama and my siblings were here with me. We wouldn’t have a cake like we usually would, but at least there’d be a scrumptious treat or two. My siblings and I would have fought to blow out my twelve birthday candles, and we would all have cake smeared on our faces. It would’ve been nice… I cannot help but smile imagining it, even though I now hear the earth beneath me begin to shake—the rumbling growing louder as the tremors rattle the entire structure around me. I now see it approaching: cracks slithering swiftly along the concrete roof as everything behind caves in. Maybe I’ll see Mama…