It's Always The Same

• Asma Ali Ahmed, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2022

My eyes open to smoke. Again. It is the 8th of October, 1943 and four years since the Second World War began. The shattered buildings surrounding me remind me that nearly all of our homes were attacked less than four months ago. For now, we live on the streets and in the ruins of our houses. If some were lucky enough, they lived in tents that they saved in the last minutes before their homes were destroyed.

Mama always says to see the bright light even on a dark day. But there is no light in a sky packed with smoke. This is what I tell her but she dismisses me.
“Hush, now,” she says. “Can’t you see? The air has become clearer. It’s an improvement.” I just smile. We need to be strong in times like these.

Deep down, even Mama knows that there is no improvement. The air raids are the same. The air of panic and the desperate screams of children and adults as they swiftly clamber past the great heaps of debris to get to the bomb shelters. The sound of the bombs dropping onto the surface above us. The taste of the air after a raid. The smell of ash. It was always the same. But the worst part isn’t the bombings or the thick smoke. It’s the way that the ground is littered with the bodies of those who didn’t get to the shelters in time. The cries of people who discover that their family or friends were amongst the fallen.

After we come out of the shelter, our vision is blurred because of the smoke. Mama entangles me and my brother in a giant hug. It’s always the same.
“Are you okay?” she asks. When we nod in return, she holds us tight and we look around at the chaos. More homes were destroyed. We look at each other as we think about my Papa, who went with dozens of other men to fight the war. A tear trickles down our ash-covered faces. Only, we cannot cry. We know that crying will only serve to dishearten the people around us. So we try to stay strong. We advance forward and help to gather things from broken homes and be brave for our friends and family.

The bomber planes do not fly at night. This is why the nighttime contains the only peaceful moments for all of us. Only, we are too exhausted to do anything but think. So, some of Mama’s friends like to pray. I pray too sometimes. For my Mama and for my little brother. My friends. For Papa, who’s fighting for all of us to end this era of suffering and fear. I pray for the people everywhere who are suffering from this dreadful war. If I had one wish, it would be this. To end all forms of war all over the world. To have peace in the world. Hopefully, it will get better and eventually end.