Never trust a pupil with a bomb.

I remember the first missile, glowing bright on my screen.

Incapable of thought, the sight sent a frenzy down my spine.

 

Sprinting into the desolate kitchen, I watch my mother’s eyes as they stare down, etch themselves into the abyss and glare in awe. I can barely make out her whisper.

 

“Doomsday,” she utters through the chagrin.

 

February 24th, the leading cause of death, and destruction, and demolition. Soon the country will confirm a nationwide irreversible diagnosis and mark the dead as a destruction of property.

 

A bittersweet reunion, a caffeinated rendezvous, slices tension in the espresso. The oppressor and the oppressed sit across the bar, in stillness and in woe.

 

A heartbreaking attack, a full-scale invasion, of the country I used to call home.

 

My blood boils, a prohibited mélange of DNA. Equally aggressor and victim, a fault of transgression, oddly hidden in plain sight. I tear myself to shreds, hurl a fist down my throat and gobble up the guilt of my ancestors.

 

A quaint smile spreads across my face, as I watch my mother’s back break into a plea. The assailant’s daughter sits huddled in a murky room, head in hand, awaiting trepidation. Little oceans spill from within her like unrestrainable wounds – the betrayal of a bloodline.

 

Shredded by clashing morals, I witness raw, clotted bone tear away. I hold her fragile physique and without another thought, forcibly let go of inborn prejudice. “My mother is no oppressor,” I murmur through dismay.

 

Once again, the sight illuminates my homeland.

 

This time, a brother drops.

 

The murderer is blameless.

 

The fault was never ours.

 

9/2/24

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