War is a big monstor

I always thought war is a big monster with spiky blue skin and a big left nostril that he nourishes with the smell of blood. When I was four, I imagined that every time I quarreled with my sister over the Barbie doll that we shared, War would drink a glass of Champaign with his other monster friends and laugh at how easily he tempts and conquers his human toys. Afraid of being confirmed on this frightening thought, I didn’t share it with anyone but my mother. My mom had smiled and kissed me on face saying “I will never let that monster touch you, honey.” Even though in school we were taught that all truth is worth knowing, my mother always said we should distinguish between the facts we need to know and the ones we do not. She said: “it doesn’t matter whether the monster exists or not, the important thing is how we let it control us even when it doesn’t exist.” I didn’t understand that until I was thirteen.

My mother had met War when she was a blooming rose and enjoyed over-the-wall talks with her friends. For the past 15 years I have watched the colors of this rose fade. I have seen some of the petals drop on the Bukhari* and burn as the winter wind blew harshly through the holes of our wooden door and brick cottage. Father had said we would cover the holes with wood and mud before next year’s first snow. “Until then”, he said, “You gals should hug each other tight and make sure all of you are covered and warm.” Despite the cold, the water dripping from the leak of the roof provided us, the four daughters, with entertainment as we competed on catching them before they fall into the bucket placed by mother. The rainy and snowy nights of winter were haunted with poverty, hunger and need for peace but the tales of elders in the family kept us distracted and warm until we fall asleep.

The elders would talk politics, gossip about the evils of the war and drink lots of tea to stay warm. They would warn us, the children, to avoid becoming toys in the hands of humans who were loyal servants to war. “War brings poverty and ignorance, which cause slavery of one’s body and mind” my grandma would say as she braided my hair. I knew the monster would shiver and scream with outrage when we heard these words of wisdom. I knew he would breathe heavily and his nostrils would expand. He would feel thirst for more celebrations, more blood, more hunger and more devastation.

The thorny fingers of war touched me in 1991 when I was 40 days old. 18 years I have lived with war and watched the bricks of our house fall. My mom hugged me and run out of our house to the street. Houses falling everywhere. Bricks breaking everywhere. I saw how everyone claimed and fought for one of the bricks without thinking of the house. Today, I watch people trying to build new houses with their one brick forgetting about the common house; the house where they come from. I don’t see any hands covering the holes and protecting the children against the cold breeze. I see blood streams flowing out each hole. There were children with fingers that froze searching for food and parents who sold their children to save them from starvation. The monster watched women with burqas who stayed nights out to survive poverty and save their children and mocked us. There were more Champaign glasses for the monster. I know if we don’t open the windows for sunlight to reach, many more roses will also lose color and die and many more will steal the bricks of our house to build their own palaces.

*Bukhari: Afghan traditional heater