“War may sometimes be a necessary evil. But no matter how necessary, it is always an evil, never a good. We will not learn to live together in peace by killing each other’s children.”

― Jimmy Carter, The Nobel Peace Prize Lecture

On January 15th, 1991, it had almost been five months since Iraq had invaded Kuwait, my home country. Our home, which once echoed with the laughter of my kinsfolk, had become an empty house that was only left with my mom, my dad, siblings, one aunt, and her kids. All other members of the family had fled to Saudi Arabia. We had, on the other hand, stayed behind.

I recall the grownups at that time staying glued to the radio all day – as it was our only source of information from the temporary Kuwaiti government stationed in Saudi Arabia. I also remember my mom’s puzzled expression that morning. I was sure she had heard an update on the radio, but I couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad news. She seemed worried, but I could detect a glimmer of hope in her expressions.

“So what now?” I asked my mom.

At that point, my parents had given up trying to pretend everything was okay. I was eight years old—too old not to be told the truth and yet too young to be exposed to the cruelty being meted out to us. I was exposed to the political reality as my mom explained that the ultimatum the UN had issued to the invading troops for unconditional retreat from Kuwait had expired. Saddam Husain had not shown any signs of complying with the UN’s resolution, and so, external force was to be used in accordance.

“War will start any minute now. May God help us,” my mom had said. She desperately tried to downplay what war entails, assuring me that everything would be fine, and that we would reunite with our family soon enough. We all hurried to count our supplies in preparation: candles, batteries for our precious radio, the little food that we had, and the masks we had crafted, anticipating a chemical attack as warned. We locked the doors and taped the windows shut. My mom reminded me to pray before going to bed, though she really didn’t have to—it had been my daily routine since day one of the invasion.

I was so eager to meet God that night. I fell on my knees and asked God for what my heart desired the most: soldiers—thousands and thousands of them. I asked God to dispatch them in airplanes and tanks, and for them to carry guns with unlimited ammo. I wanted my soldiers to be brutal, merciless, and unsparing. I wanted them to wreak havoc and destroy. I wanted them to be so loud that they would instill horror in the hearts of the invading troops and send them scurrying back to where they had come from. And maybe, just maybe then would I stop jumping every time someone knocked at our door. Maybe then would I stop lingering restlessly at the window in wait every time my dad left the house, fearing it would be the last time I would see him. Maybe then would it be safe enough for my grandparents to come back home. I wanted a war, and I assured God I wouldn’t be scared.

Two days later, my prayers were answered—I got the war I wanted. And instead of the thousands soldiers I had asked for, I was given about a million from 35 countries who came to liberate Kuwait. Operation Desert Storm was launched, signaling the onset of Gulf War I. The bombing was even louder than I had desired, and it seemed to come from so close, I could’ve sworn the source was right in our backyard. I couldn’t keep my promise; I was scared. One month, one week, and four days later, the war had come to an end, and we got our home country back. Little did I know it was not quite the end for me. After the war, I had a long list of things to ask from God, and toys, for once, were far from being included in the list. I had other things to worry about. Will we ever see my uncle again, who had been captured on the first day of the invasion? What happened to the rest of my family? What about my friends? Are they safe? Is our cat still alive? Will we go back to school again? When? Why can’t we see the sun anymore? Can we take a shower now? Will the electricity return? I was already a fully grown-up woman trapped in an eight-year-old’s body, noting meticulously all the concerns that needed to be addressed.

Nowadays, my friends make fun of me sometimes over how I make a big deal out of anything and everything: a cup of coffee, a piece of chocolate, a mug, theatre performances, a pair of shoes, and my perfume. They feel I have lost my touch with reality, and that I need to grow up. How can I begin to explain to them that I, actually, have my priorities in place, and that I am, indeed, in touch with reality maybe even more than they are? For me, I need to make sure to stop in my hectic life to write many long chapters to read and reread in times of sorrow. I want to now suffuse them with so much joy, laughter, and numerous little things—something to remind me of my better self so I don’t drift into a path of bitterness, sadness, fear, and anger. I want to live while I can, and I will continue to treasure and savor the little things in life.

When my eight-year-old self was supine on the floor during the war next to my mom, siblings, cousins, and aunt, all huddled under the stairs to try and get some sleep, I would seek solace in thoughts of my grandmother and the numerous times I had fallen asleep on her lap as she played with my hair. I would remember walking into her room to find her praying, only to hear her whispering my name in her prayers. I would then recall racing to my grandfather every morning, ready for him to drop me off at school. I would picture my friends and classmates and our dance group at school, and how my mom would make an exception and allow me to wear makeup on the days we would perform. I would think of the times when it used to be safe for my cousin and me to play in our neighborhood. I would recollect my last birthday party, my purple dress, my favorite cartoon, my crayons, and my grandmother’s perfume. Somehow, reminiscing about these little things would calm me down, and my heart rate would ease down, allowing me to slowly fall asleep. Somehow, I would stop hearing the loud bombing, and I would stop thinking about the pathetic primitive masks that we had made for a possible chemical attack.

I try to find the strength in my heart to move on and forgive, but I can’t forgive the adults who stole my childhood and that of thousands around the world. I can’t forgive them for obscuring my innocent memories, under the endless nights of terror and hopeless prayers. I can’t forgive them for making my young self drop on her knees begging God for war. Even at that age, I could comprehend that war was the only language they spoke. What a shame— despite the lessons learned from wars waged by heartless souls, we witness the same actions and consequences on a daily basis.

I grew up to realize how fortunate I had been. I was one of the lucky ones; I didn’t lose a limb or an eye, nor was I forced to travel the desert seeking shelter. I knew that I was among the lucky ones because while living through that horror, I was aware that another reality existed—one where peace and harmony prevailed. I was among the lucky ones because I had lived to tell my story and pursue my dreams, while thousands of children are still trapped in war zones. Despite how loud they scream, their voices crush to silence.

Children of war, you poor little things, no one can hear you . . .