As far as the eyes could see, there stretched a desolate landscape of dried blood and the lifeless husks of countless soldiers, their dreams extinguished on the altar of conflict. In the relentless pursuit of the present, we unwittingly obliterated the promise of tomorrow.
Etched upon the weathered memorial of Fatima, a courageous Iraqi girl who dared to dream of a normal childhood, were haunting words that pierced the soul:
"A plane made out of paper,
A promise made out of love,
A war carried out of hate...."
These poignant lines encapsulated the tragic essence of her existence. With determination born of innocence, Fatima fashioned a paper plane from the remnants of a half-burnt notebook, a silent testament to her enduring hope amidst the chaos.
Whispers lingered of something written in red upon that fragile plane – a message of reassurance from a child thrust into the crucible of war:
"I am safe, don't worry, Ammi," it read. "The soldiers spoke of us as useless pawns in a game of bloodshed. Zakir's Ammi wept bitterly today, invoking prayers for divine protection. But as promised, I send this plane to you. When will you return, Mom?"
With a heart full of hope and desperation, Fatima released the paper plane into the air, praying that it would somehow reach her mother. Even now, when I close my eyes, the words etched upon that paper aircraft haunt my thoughts, a poignant reminder of the innocence lost in the ravages of conflict. I am left to ponder our collective failure as humans, to safeguard the most vulnerable among us.
"I wonder when things became like this," I muse, the weight of sorrow heavy upon my heart. Misfortune, it seems, befalls only those fortunate enough to survive. But amidst the wreckage of shattered dreams, I question – is this truly our fate?
