Displaced Homeless

—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
like?

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.

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1947—Time of the Great Partition of India. Escape to Pakistan Border.
We left our home in Srinagar Kashmir.

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