A Once Beautiful City
Carcasses of burnt-out vehicles litter the disembowelled streets of a once beautiful city. Armed men close in, circling like a pack of wolves. The arid desert air is thick with the stench of fear as their cold-blooded stealth floods the streets and alleyways with hatred.
Wizened mothers protect the fruits of their wombs as best they can. Once happily chanting in their kitchens preparing the regional delicacy, Aushak, the time-consuming dish reserved for special occasions, they were content and safe in their homes. Memories of them lovingly preparing the special family meal; the aroma of mint and gandana fade away as another plume of black, acrid smoke chokes their throats and burns their eyes as they struggle for breath. They fight for survival.
It is not their battle but it has become their fight. They are caught in the cross-fire, sometimes played out by politicians in boardrooms and other times by soldiers on the ground. Innocent children, wide-eyed with terror, clutch at their mother’s Pashtuns, desperate for peace. Normality. The warmth of a father’s embrace.
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