Things were never the same

Torn apart

1999

The war continued rapture my home place and eventually we were forced to flee to a safer place.

Everything we knew was stripped away from us, our home,land, livestock, everything and we were forced to live in a tent with many other people in an unfamiliar place.

Baba spiralled into depression he had lost his precious farm, everything he worked for his entire life and went up in flames, literally.

My mother mourned for my sister, Aisha, we didn't know if she was alive or dead. She'd married a year before the war began and moved away from home.

I mourned for my books,it was selfish to mourn for inanimate objects of no importance in such a time but for me they were important, they gave me life.

I was blessed to finish school up until the twelfth grade, something nearly unheard of for a female in my village. I wanted to attend university in the capital but Babba saw it as futile and a waste of money, I was going to find a husband and be his servant as I said that was our purpose in life.

Our village was blessed to have a little library, I would often borrow books there and in my free time, sneak away to explore the world beyond my village.

There were books where my father would have a heart attack if he knew I read them. Maya Angelou spoke of feminism, the equality between men and women. I liked that. I wanted to be an equal to men, I no longer wanted to be held back from dreams simply because of what was between my legs. I was a feminist, I was going to fight for women's rights.

Now I had nothing to keep me going, nothing to inspire me. For the first time in my life I felt defeated.

Though what I managed to have in the camp that I didn't have in my village was a friend, Fatima. Her brothers were fighting in the war so they brought her to the camp to keep her safe.

Safe.

That was the word they used to describe the camp, however I felt anything but. Not with these men walking around.

American soldiers,they were supposed to our allies our government said but I didn't trust them for one bit. If anything my books taught me as that America was a nation built on greed,they didn't do anything that didn't benifit them.

It was ironic how only three months before the war I had finished reading a book about the Vietnam war, how American soldiers were regarded as heroes. I saw them as nothing more than trained killers. My father condemned me, told me my books were turning me into a radical.

I loved my father but I didn't love his ideals, he worshipped America. Saw it as land of gold and opportunities, he even learnt English in his youth as he'd hoped he'd one day end up there. But alas his dreams never came true and he was left a bitter man.

Though despite his bitterniss I never imagined that he would try and ruin my life.

It was if I was reliving the day I was forcefully stripped away from my village,my home but this time it would be my family too.

It was one of the rare days I had actually woken up in a good mood. Fatima and I were tasked with handing food out to the children. We were walking around the camp giving the children playing around their servings. An unusual smile was my face, seeing their innocent faces filled with joy made me feel better.

"I received a letter from my eldest brother this morning". Fatima said.

"What did he say?". I asked,as Fatima's brother was in the war I often depended on letters that he sent her, so I could know what was going on but he often said quite little about the war

"He believes the war will end soon and he'll come and take me but knowing my brother he maybe lying just to protect me". She said and I frowned.

"I never I understand why men think it's necessary to lie to protect us. You're not a child, you're a woman. You can handle the truth". I said and she sighed.

"Perhaps they feel it's their duty to protect since we're more emotional". She said, I scoffed turning to look at her as I held the large dish to my chest.

"Emotional?". I spat feeling anger course through my body. I wasn't angry at her particularly, nor her words. It was years worth of bottled up anger. Not being able to go to university, being told I was less than, the war, knowing that my father would eventually force me to marry a man that I didn't want to after this. Just everything. I was angry.

Our conversation was I interrupted by the children's excited squeals, I turned to look at the source and had to fight off rolling my eyes.

An American soldier.

That was the source of their excitement, seeing a large, pale man dressed in military attire. They were the ones who brought us to the camp and people saw them as heroes. They had a base located near and often women would cook them one of the traditional meals and take it to them as a token of appreciation.

I wasn't one of those women.

He seemed to enjoy the attention he was getting as he smiled and picked up one of the children all the while he's cold blue eyes focused on me.

I knew his game and I wasn't going to play it.

I turned around and began walking back to the tent as Fatima tried catching up with me.

"What's wrong". She asked catching up with me. My heart rate increased as I tried speeding up when I heard loud footsteps behind us.

"He's following us". I said.

Perhaps I was overreacting but something inside of me told me to get away fast.

I felt relief when I finally reached the tent, though that was fleeting. He had actually followed me all the way.

He was speaking to me but I ignored him, I didn't understand him anyway since he spoke in English.

I finally turned around and faced him, my face marred with a deep frown.

His lips twitched up,it wasn't a smile, he was smirking. He nodded before turning around and exiting the tent.

"What was that about". Fatima asked, I didn't answer, just continued glaring at his retreating form.

Bastard!