The war lasted for 5 years. Five agonising and painful years. Even though I was out from the capital city, I could feel the pain and suffering that the people experienced just by listening to the radio or reading the newspaper. The headline of one newspaper once read
"589 killed by a bomb in the capital city"
Five hundred and eighty nine people. Died. Instantly by one bomb. Sometimes I wonder where are the sanity of these bombers? Or even, where are their hearts? Couldn't they just think of the consequence and put their feet into the victims' shoes?
For five years, we were placed in a village faraway from the capital city. It was a small quiet village, filled with farmsteads and gardens. The boys worked in the fields to grow plants and rear the animals while the girls helped in the house chores. Sometimes the girls would work in the field as well, doing light work like watering.
We were all excited to hear the announcement in the radio. "We are free at last". And we knew deeply in our hearts that the war had ended. We cheered and hugged each other. Sang and danced along. We even held a celebration feast. The crops we grew, which was meant for the soldiers, were used in this feast. Turkeys, Chicken and Pig were roasted. Salads and side dishes were made.
Our hearts leaped in joy even further when we heard the news that we were all going back to our village again. Home at last I thought. But happiness was not all of us accepted. We also received the news that part of our village was destroyed by bombs. Some of us even received letters during the war, saying that their parents or relatives were killed by a bomb.
I was lucky enough not to be one of them. I could still vividly remember my mother standing and waving her white handkerchief as our bus left five years ago. Now, I could not imagine the lives of those affected by the bomb. Perhaps they would not be welcomed by anyone once they reached the village.
Perhaps, they would just be welcomed by their memories.
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