I'm exactly who I never wished to be. I'm one among a crowd of displaced people who were forced to leave their homes because of the war. The smell of sweat, of unbathed bodies around me, the dust that the wind spreads on our bodies, the pain on my feet and legs and shoulders, the tiny hands holding my skirt, the little one whose face gives me hope despite its unnatural stillness, all these forms the scenario I would never have wanted to be in.
It would have been less difficult if my husband were with me. I won't think about that. I can't have the convenience of remembering how wonderfully he looked in his long, uncut hair, his fine clean scent after a bath, the strength and largeness of his body, his loving arms around me at night. I won't remember the last look on his face before they took him away. I can't hope that we'll find each other again. I have to stay in the here and now.
I have two daughters, aged 6 and 4, and an infant in my arms. We have walked for three days. We started near the front of the crowd of people and slowly kept falling back, more and more. When someone offered us space on a rickety old bus, I was grateful. I could have walked forever for the sake of my children, but they wouldn't have been able to walk much longer. So by the time the bus had come along, it was like my husband was still keeping an eye on us somehow, being protective, as always.
And here we are on day three, in a place where we're safe and thankful for temporary shelter. I see reporters, sympathetically walking around, looking for a story. I used to be one of them. I used to work in a newspaper. But I didn't cover disasters. I wrote about restaurants, music, and fashion. Things of that nature.
Cameramen are looking about. My two daughters hide behind me. I hardly notice that they took our photograph. I'm looking around me, hoping that there will be food. My daughters are tired and hungry. My infant is extraordinarily still. If I eat something, I can breastfeed my infant.
It would have been less difficult if my husband were with me. I won't think about that. I can't have the convenience of remembering how wonderfully he looked in his long, uncut hair, his fine clean scent after a bath, the strength and largeness of his body, his loving arms around me at night. I won't remember the last look on his face before they took him away. I can't hope that we'll find each other again. I have to stay in the here and now.
I have two daughters, aged 6 and 4, and an infant in my arms. We have walked for three days. We started near the front of the crowd of people and slowly kept falling back, more and more. When someone offered us space on a rickety old bus, I was grateful. I could have walked forever for the sake of my children, but they wouldn't have been able to walk much longer. So by the time the bus had come along, it was like my husband was still keeping an eye on us somehow, being protective, as always.
And here we are on day three, in a place where we're safe and thankful for temporary shelter. I see reporters, sympathetically walking around, looking for a story. I used to be one of them. I used to work in a newspaper. But I didn't cover disasters. I wrote about restaurants, music, and fashion. Things of that nature.
Cameramen are looking about. My two daughters hide behind me. I hardly notice that they took our photograph. I'm looking around me, hoping that there will be food. My daughters are tired and hungry. My infant is extraordinarily still. If I eat something, I can breastfeed my infant.
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