Syria

Two options: not piano or violin class, but

staying home under a cascade of fire and blood,

or leaving to a swamp of terror. Staying home to see

the concrete collapse while eating a stale meal, or

flee the fire to enter its opposite—waves that

you believed would lead you to a better life. you are

a child, but your sparkling innocence has dissipated. you

were not pampered or spoilt like your counterparts, you

were not bribed with treats or gifted with visits from your

grandparents. you are not horrified when you get a paper cut;

you are accustomed to the fact that human bodies are

brimming with blood, that hatred unleashes it and makes

it flood the ground. you know that fire is not confined to a

hearth or candles on a birthday cake, you know that fire

is powerful, furious—that it can tear down everything

you care about within seconds. you know that saline water

is not limited to sunny beaches and sand castles. you know

that waves were not made for children to frolic in, that they

can tear down wood and quench fire. water can be wicked,

and you are too youthful to know that.

your peers believe that parents are an epitome of strength,

that they are made of metal and infused with diamonds. they believe

mum and dad are immortal. but you know better, even

though you shouldn’t. you know that seemingly strong

people can crack, that people die and that humans are one of

the weakest creatures on earth. maybe you can’t articulate it;

but you know, somewhere in your mind it is written down, and

you do all you can to forget it. you will regain some of your

innocence if you forget the fact that humans can be cruel,

that nature can be unforgiving, that lives are painfully mortal and

easy to break. but not as easy to destroy as your innocent

soul.