My Tears Ricochet

1998/2000
Eritrean–Ethiopian War

War is hell. I remember it all too well, I wish I couldn't. The memories marked me
like a bloodstain tattooed badly in my skin. I can still see the dead bodies here and
there, burned fleshes, half-cut bodies, grounds greasy with gore, the bruises and
the magma-red blood. I can still hear the pitiful screaming and whimpering of the
wounded and the dying, hear the crying of the kids and the ones who lost their
loved ones. I can still taste the salt of blood, tears and dust that soaked my face. I
can still smell the awful stench of death, and the smoke of my burning house. I
can still feel the shudder of the ground as the very earth groans at the abuse of
artillery and explosives, and feel the last shiver of life and the flow of warm blood
as people die around me. It's still all over me like a wine-stained dress I don't
want to wear anymore.
The war broke out while I was at the college. My younger brother was 16 but he
couldn't go to school. He was hidden. I remember how they attacked house after
house, how they took every boy they found, to make them soldiers. But we hid
him very well under the house. Those nights under the cracked dirty floor with
the annoying creak under the hot pipes; for those days that passed without even
hearing the sound of his breath, without seeing the sun or the stars in the night
sky. The only thing he was hearing was the whispers of us telling him that he will
be alright.
But that day, none of us was alright. I was at class when a storm of hundreds of
missiles were exploding one after another falling on every single house, schools,
hospitals. I hit the ground running, all I could think of was my family. I reached my
house and it was too late. It was gone. The second I saw my house on fire, I was
made of ashes too. I didn't make any sound, I couldn't. I lied to myself saying that
they were not here. I keep telling myself that they're somewhere else, just not
under that broken home. But when I saw their bodies, covered with blood and
dust of our own house, I couldn't see anymore, its like I lost my eyes when I lost
them, I lost every part of me, my eyes, my legs, my hands, my heart and my soul. I
couldn't move. I kept thinking, Did they suffer for hours, waiting for help,
screaming their lungs out for someone to get them out? Or did they die
peacefully in their sleep?. I should've been there, I should've burst the door with
that "mummy I'm right here" smile, and all of us setting on the sofa wrapped
around each other's arms, telling each other that we'll be alright. I should've been
there when it happened, I should've died with them, all of us together, with our
hands tied. They died dead, but from that moment, I will be dying alive million
times till the day I die.
I stood there, staring at my dead parents, they weren't moving. Neither were I. I
stared at their bellies like I used to do when I was five when they were asleep to
make sure that they're alive and won't leave me alone. I keep staring, like a fool
mindlessly hopelessly hopping they're breathing, but this time, they weren't. The
moment my neighbour shouted: "HE IS ALIVE, HE IS ALIVE" my soul came back. It
was Noah, my brother, my only brother. Miraculously, he was alive. The
basement that we all hated the idea of him hiding in it saved his life. I hugged
him, like I never did before, checking every inch of his body if he's wounded. He
had a bad wound on his head, he was bleeding out so they took him from me to
heal him. He kept asking me: "Where is mum?, Where is dad? " I didn't say
anything. All I did was hugging him and whispering "We will be alright" but I
wasn't sure myself if we really will. He looked around and saw the people carrying
my parents bodies. He ran, and ran but I hold him as much as I could, not wanting
him to see their faces, it will haunt him forever like it will haunt me too. He was
bawling his eyes out. All I did was holding him tightly, I didn't know why I couldn't
cry too. I just couldn't. My trauma overwhelmed me and got me numb. I was dead
just like them. The calamity made me lose my sanity.
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I was fragile both mentally and physically. I had a feeling so peculiar, That this
pain would be for evermore. The pain was cutting me deep right to my bones as I
stood here, right in front of the two bodies wrapped in a white linen. We all
gathered here, we lined up, weeping in a sunlit room in a mutual grieving. I tasted
the salt of tears as I held my brother, I didn't know or care if it was the salt of my
tears or his. I saw them burying my parents. I wanted to run and jump there, I
wanted to shout: "I AM DEAD, PLEASE BURY ME WITH THEM, PLEASE DON'T
LEAVE ME HERE" , but I didn't. I saw all the names carved on the harsh and cold
stones of graves. The dates below it, the days before it. Seeing the shape of my
parents names spelled pain. I just kept holding my brother, the only thing that left
for me. Him and I were like flowers to my parents, but now, these two flowers
that they've grown together will die of thirst.
After the death of my parents, I was picking up the pieces of the mess it made. I
was lost. My future was bleak. The drought was the very worst. They were not
here to water me with their love and warm. I wanted to go to them, but I can't
bribe the door on my way to the sky to let me in. It still hurt beneath my scars
when I was pulled apart from them. I was an open wound bleeding out none stop.
But if you never bleed you'll never going to grow, so I kept bleeding.
I had to look after my younger brother, I had to be strong for him. I kept telling
myself "My brother, my responsibility" hundred times. He got bored of it but I
knew it warms his heart whenever he hears those words. He won't be the hidden
boy under the floor anymore. I will make him touch the sky. I will gather my tears
and water his roots with it to let him grow, to make him blossom. I won't let my
parents' little flower die of thirst no matter what. We will be alright, just like my
parents used to say all the time. Even if they're not with us anymore, we will.
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The war had displaced thousands including myself. Nearly all houses were
distracted, all schools, even my collage. My beautiful town turned to ashes, and
my heart was on fire, on a goddamn blaze. The sky turned black like a sadness
storm. The whole town was painted blue, the cascade, ocean waves blues came
and swallowed my sad dead town inside its grieving arm. We had to leave but I
didn't know where. I was lost. The only place I wanted to go to was my mother's
warm lap and my father's strong and soft arms. But I knew we got to get away
from here.
I never had the thought to leave my hometown, but I had too. It was my kingdom,
leaving it felt like I was in exile. I won't come back. As much as I wanted to, but
coming back to my broken town will feel like digging up the grave of memories
that will haunt me to death. So from the moment I left I knew I won't be back.
I didn't know where I was going, I was just going with the crowd, with the flow. I
was like an astronaut, who got lost inside the arms of the empty cold space, with
no direction, lost my way to home, earth, the only liveable planet I ever known.
Missing my hometown was like missing the feeling of the air brushing my skin, the
feeling of the rain soaking me in, the feeling of the gravity pulling me down. I was
just floating there, drowning inside nothing, feeling the darkness of the empty
space swallowing me and making me nothing but a dark matter. But when I felt a
small hand wrapped with mine, I got back to earth. My brother's hand. Our hands
tied like they were created like that, or to be like that, forever. I can feel mine
melting with sweat from how long we were holding each other, not wanting to let
go, fearing that one of us might disappear like a ghost if we did. We were walking
non stop. I couldn't feel my legs anymore. Station after station, bus after bus,
train after train, camp after camp. I didn't know which town or country we were
in. It felt like there was no inch in Africa left for us to put our foots on. And
somehow, we were in Libya. We had to cross the sea to Italy. We were all divided
in small boats. It was dangerous, treacherous. But we didn't have a choice. I held
my brother like he was a part of my body. If the waves swallowed him it will
swallow us both. I couldn't count the number of those who got caught inside the
arms of the fury waves. I was afraid that we would be next. But thanks God,
finally, We reached our destination. We made it out alive.
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Italy. The only thing I knew about it was pizza and pasta, nothing else. But it was
beyond my imagination. The people welcomed us with kindness and warmth. I
was fascinated with the bright colours of their eyes and hair and skin. Something I
used to see only in Hollywood movies. They put us in camps, but some of us was
moving to the city. so was I. But I left my brother there. At least he will get food
and a place to sleep here until I get my shit together.
Since I moved here in this city, I've been having a hard time adjusting to this new
life. Everything was new to me. The people, the language, the lifestyle. I didn't
know from where should I start. All I knew was I had to get a job. Searching for
jobs were so tedious. Not knowing the language made it much worse. I kept
coming back to the camp to check in on my brother then getting back looking for
a job. It got me dizzy. But Finally, I got one. A bartender. Not something I would
like to do but that's better than nothing. It took me a long time to earn an enough
money to get a home, then get my brother to school. But I did it. Yes, I did it. My
Parents would be proud. I know they will.
Those nights I spent, in a squalid, dirty and old local club. With the loud sound of
drums and hums and the bright colourful lights coming from the shimmering
mirrorballs, that if they break, they will be in a million little pieces, like my heart.
Those nights I spent, standing for hours till my legs get jelled, polishing the cups
until they gleam and glisten. Hidden behind the bar table. Pouring whiskey for
miserable men, just for them to pour their heart out to me in return. Telling me
their deepest secrets, deepest fears, with a semi-poetic stream of consciousness.
Although I didn't understand half of the shit they were saying, but I could write a
book of all the stories I heard. No offense, But their problems sounded like
champagne problems compared to mine. One breaking up with his girlfriend
because of him spending his whole time on video games. One having a fall out
with a friend because their political opinions were not the same. Bullshit. But
there was one man, I knew from his face that he was Ethiopian. He was nearly a
daily customer. Coming to sit on the same chair, ordering the same drink, Tequila.
Although I was fed up with my own issues, I wanted to hear his story so bad, I was
curious to know why he kept looking down at his cold cup for hours like the
weight of the world was on his shoulder. Then throw his head back and knock
back the shots, satisfied with the burning taste passing down his throat. Getting
wasted every night, drunk on his pain. I wanted to know why he sat half leaning
back on the chair, one of his feet still on the floor. Making him look as if he was
going to stay here or wanted to go. But he had to stay, because life forced him to
be here. I wanted to know him. It was that one night, when the bar was empty,
just two broken souls were there, Him and I. I remember him saying: "Give me the
strongest shit you have". I heard him saying under his breathe too: "I want to
forget everything". so I poured him Patrón tequila. Hoping that will open the locks
of his heart to me. But it didn't. He knocked back 17 shots. he wasn't counting,
but I was. When he was done, all he did was leaving. But I followed him, to make
sure he was okay I guess. He couldn't stand straight and fell on the greasy floor. I
ran to him and helped him to get on his knees. He told me one thing that I will
never forget, he said: " I used to carry the wounded soldiers like that out of the
war" and from that moment, our story started.
His name was Antony. He was a soldier from the Ethiopian army. He told me that
he was leaving here in Italy for years. But when the war broke out, he went there
and joined the army. Sacrificing his life for his family and his country. He just
wanted to be a hero. But when he came back, waiting for his family to greet him
with a battle hero's welcome. They were all dead. Like his sacrifice was for
nothing. The flashbacks were haunting him. Seeing himself tripping over strings of
viscera fifteen feet long, over bodies which had been cut in half at the waist. Legs
and arms and heads bearing only necks, lay fifty feet from the nearest torsos. As
night fell the beachhead reeked from the stench of burning flesh. Molten-red
blood splashed from his open wounds. Men groaning and yowling as the
battlefield became slick with innards. Bodies falling one after the other. These
sights kept flashing before his eyes every single time he blinked. These memories
in his head were so vivid to see.
Nightmares. It was our unwanted guest. Our enemy. But the night sky was our
friend. I remember those sleepless nights we spent. Him and I and insomnia our
third. Our sleep was stolen, the war was the thief. But that couldn't stop us from
dancing around the kitchen in the refrigerator light. We were up all night, me
counting and kissing the scars in his body that were drawn badly by the war, and
him brushing my hair and counting the grey hairs that were coloured carelessly by
the unmerciful life. And us healing each other's invisible scars deep in our souls.
Something med school didn't cover. He taught me that war doesn't just make you
strong, it makes you weak too.
Finding someone whom I can count on was a challenge after the things I been
through. But I couldn't help but count on him like I used to count the stars with
him when we couldn't sleep. Even if both of us were painted blue, our love was
burning red. But being in love with a man with a soldier's heart was hard. A
ruthless love. A beautiful, sad, tragic love affair. And I'll be smart to walk away,
but he was a quicksand. His words shot to kill when he's mad, aiming for my
heart. He was so casually cruel in the name of being honest. My heart was glass,
and he kept dropping it like he got a shaky little kid hands. He kept breaking me
like a promise all the time. But I kept making excuses for him telling myself that
he didn't mean it. Reminding myself that the war made him like that. There's an
ache in me, put there by the ache in him. It was becoming toxic. And he knew it.
He left me. Saying that he wasn't good for me. And I didn't stop him either. But I
kept cursing his name from the moment he walked away, wishing he stayed,
wishing he tried to be better, instead of giving up on our love like it was a bad
drug. What we had was shining, but now it's rusting. He drew stars around my
scars, but now I'm bleeding. He painted our bluest skies the darkest grey. I
couldn't move on. The goddamn time won't fly like I was paralyzed by it. I knew
our story was over, but I didn't know why I was still writing pages. I persisted and
resisted the temptation to reach out to him. I gave up, like he did. Even though I
knew he'd linger like an old favorite perfume. But time will take its sweet time
erasing him. So I gave it to the time.
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And the life goes. Since I settled down in the city. I kept going to the camp and
helping my people. Welcoming new ones and telling them they are safe here. I
saw you. The 6 years you. You were weeping and wiping away every single tear
dropping on your cheeks with your shaky hands. Your beautiful long lashes got
wet with tears. You got a breath-taking different coloured eyes. Heterochromia
eyes. I got lost inside them. Its like the earth split into two inside your eyes. The
blue one covered with oceans and secrets and the brown one covered with life
and chocolates. I asked you where your parents are, and you answered me with a
heart-shattering voice that they are dead. Its like I saw the little me saying that. I
hugged you, not knowing what to do. I didn't know what to say to make you feel
good for the moment. So without thinking, I asked you what do you want to be
when you grow up. What a stupid question. But you gave me an answer that
changed my whole life. You got so excited, your two coloured eyes were sparkling
and you started moving your hands to explain your little big words, innocently,
you said: "I want to be an alien and fly rockets to the sky and go to space". I knew
when you said alien that you meant astronaut but you didn't know the word. I
was about to correct you but you continued with a loud tone: " NO NO NO, I know
what you want to say, rockets are bad, they killed my mum and dad, but I will not
do rockets like that, I will not throw them on earth to kill people, I will fly them UP
UP UP to the sky and find life there like my dad told me, he said I will get alien
friends there". OMG, I couldn't believe that these words were getting out of a 6
years old kid mouth. I couldn't respond, all I did was staring at you like you were a
sort of magic. I didn't know what it was but I felt a strange feeling, I felt
responsible. I wanted to make your dream come true. No matter what it costs.
You were a lost treasure from my country that I had to keep safe. You were rare
as the glimmer of a comet in the sky. I didn't want to leave you here. I wanted to
take you with me. Its like I was enchanted to meet you. Its like I wanted to be
your mum and dad. The feelings of motherhood do not have to be for a child that
a woman carries in her womb or gives birth to. I wanted you to be my child, my
little girl. I wanted to take you to my brother, three hearts in one home. So I did.
And that was the best decision I've ever made in my entire life.
The second I held your little hand, I felt like that astronaut again, but I'm no
longer lost. I found a new home, a new planet. Not with one sun, but two suns,
like your gleaming and twinkling two coloured eyes. Hell was the journey but it
brought me heaven. It brought me you. My life was all shades of blue. But luckily;
after all the sufferings, I found you. You didn’t just drew stars around my scars,
you drew thousands of galaxies, and colourful nebulas, with your little warm pure
hands. You turned my whole life into colours of innocence I never knew I needed.
Jasmine, my little one. I write you this, by my old typewriter. You will read it when
you get back to earth. My little star. I hope you’re having a marvelous time there,
between the arms of space. You made it. I watched you making your dream come
true. I watched you flying your rocket up to the sky, not down, just like you told
me. Searching for a new world I guess. A place where man kind's dirty hands
haven't touched and impured it. A new world, a new start, a new page, a new
chance for us to do better, be better, never make the same mistakes again, never
destroy our own home with our own hands. A place where war doesn't exist. Just
peace, just love. My little girl. I love you to the moon and saturn and back.

Hannah.