LETTER FROM A 14-YEAR-OLD
I can still hear the sound of thundering guns telling me that somewhere nearby people are dying. Ever since we left the village I feel as though something has been shattered inside me. We have lost everything. Our house was burned. My books were torn to pieces. Our furniture was stolen. But what is more important is that the soft nights and the fresh mornings in the village are gone and with them I have lost my roots and have become “like grass blown by the wind,” as the Psalmist put it. Time is no longer the unending chain of hours and minutes, marked by the hands on the huge clock at the entrance of my grandfather’s house in the village… For me, time used to be the time of sleeping and of waking up and of working in the fields, the time of life. But now time has left me. It belongs to the one who stands behind the…
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