—Anjum Wasim Dar
World is always at war, wars never seem to end. Wars make people homeless.
All was dark, all was blocked, wires cut, no news, heads down, blasts sounded, bend, bend, the hut crumbled, small houses turned into rubble, homeless kids cried on broken bricks, some lay still, shocked
to death. War made people homeless. I, in my scared mother’s arms, numb, innocent, carried for miles, my two year-old sister pulled and dragged along, 'til we reached a camp, some army trucks
parked on the side. This was no home and we were homeless, hoping to reach safe havens away from killing swords and daggers of the mad raging enemy yet not knowing about reaching any home, just stops
for checks on the way. We were homeless. No news of father, was he alive? Who could we ask? Who could say? Silence was safety, sound was dangerous play. We were migrants then, refugees running away from war—
saving lives on unknown roads, with unknown yet good people. What moments were they? On what open land? Momentary resting ground, no roof, no walls, no doors, rough straw the bed, smell of cow dung, a wooden fence
was welcome then, but it was not home. Mosquitoes buzzed and bit, later embedded malaria in the blood. On the move on the truck again, jolted shaken, we kept moving till a barrier came into view. That was
home land but without a home. What would home be
No questions asked then. We were happy with the homeland in homelessness. We thought we had left the war behind. We thought we were in peace.
1947—Time of the Great Partition of India. Escape to Pakistan Border.
We left our home in Srinagar Kashmir.
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