A War Story

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A War Story -

Original Writing

I perched over the wall, looking deep into the darkness. Deep, with

unfocused pupils trying to forget it all. I stared at the

sophisticated shapes of the mosque when my eyes suddenly came into

focus. I sat and observed the devout Muslims, not coming to pray but

to bargain with Allah. The regulars were all there; the blind woman

wishing to see her daughter for the first time; the schoolgirl praying

to do well in her exams, somehow bargaining at the same time; and

Shahbana-the searching mother.

Shahbana had an interesting story, but remembering it was the hardest

thing for me to do. No matter how hard I tried I could never forget

him. He is my brother, Shahid Ahmed, and I am Sheeza. This is my

story.

August 14th 1997

It was six-thirty and Abu hadn't returned home yet. Ammi was getting

worried. Our dwelling was in the midst of a battlefield. Therefore

being home one minute late was compared to hell. The once captivating

valleys of bewitching Kashmir were now destroyed. Terrorists roamed

the streets daily to shriek their political messages. Shrieking

through bloody throats. Killing to be heard.

I sat and observed my surroundings. We constantly tried to forget the

war so our house was decorated like paradise. My eyes flittered over

the wooden mirror to my brother's distinctive grey eyes. We've always

been very close as brother and sister but today he was acting

strangely. He'd spent his day with Hassan Ali. Hassan believed in the

principles of Islam, he enjoyed preaching them to people with his

rigid conviction, it was practically his hobby. Ammi hated the

extremism of Hassan and forbade Shahid to converse with him.

The doorbell unexpectedly played its melodic chimes as Abu entered.

Ammi lost her head! Abu was a full seven minutes late and that was too

much in our shattered Kashmiri combat zone. She began yelling at him

for being so late. Shahid and I were used to their constant bickering

and ignored it as I insisted to be difficult and began a conversation.

"I saw you with Hassan again. Why are you always with him?"

Shahid's cheeks went as red as chilli powder, as his eyes darted

across into his bedroom. He possessed a look of terror over his

youthful, fourteen year old face.

"Well, tell me then,"

"We had some," he paused as his face screwed into a thoughtful look

"business to deal with, never ask me such things again"

Suddenly, what we've been dreading for our entire life happened. A

fist banged onto our feeble wooden door, a fist full of rage. Abu

signalled us to stay still, as it would lead us to our unsightly

youthful deaths. It made no difference as the savages destructed the

door and ran in. A shiver trickled down my fragile back. Abu's eyes

widened with fear as we witnessed dozens of men sprinting into our

beautiful living room.

"Take whatever you want! Please don't harm the children!" my father

shrieked ear-piercingly as a cold hand grabbed the sleeve of my

Salvaar Kameez. My entire body stiffened. I tried to move out of the

way but my body stayed stationary. My mouth had become surprisingly

dry, even after the bottle of water I had just consumed. The man with

the cold bloody hand on my shoulder lifted his other repulsive arm to
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reveal a gun. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. His

arm carried on flying upwards and a bullet came soaring out of the

revolver. My eyes blurred as I couldn't see what was happening. My

father's over-sized brain had just been shot. He fell onto our stony

floor with a loud thud. This couldn't have been happening; my father's

corpse was lying in front of my inexperienced eyes. My mother somehow

exhausted a shriek and began screaming. Shahid collapsed onto the

floor not being able to take it. The ...

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