Author: Sarah Usmani

I’m a war child.
That’s right a war child,
Just because the media makes believe that for myself I can’t speak,
Don’t pretend like you can’t hear me,
Don’t make me repeat my misery,
I’m a war child,
Yeah you heard me,
A war child.

Because of the soldiers’ machine gun playing my loud nightly lullaby,
I may not sleep at night,
But I tell you I dream,
I dream with my eyes open wide.
I dream that if tonight with God’s might I may survive,
Tomorrow I’ll look for a safer place for my siblings to hide.

You see I’m the oldest and I’m nine.
And well the youngest, she’s two,
A little too busy to have any trouble on her little mind.

Because for her the red paint,
The teary eyes,
And the loud noises,
Are all just a little punishment for the naughty kids who refuse to sleep at night.
This for her is normal life,
The life she believes all two year olds live world wide.
The life of a war child.

I’ve heard of children being bullied,
For being too fat or too skinny.
But that doesn’t happen in this town of peace,
Here, all children play in unity.
They play games that won’t lead to brain washing or all those other controversies,
Rather they get together at day time to compare who collected the most treats,
Small, big, few or many purple blue treats,
Stamped on their bodies and skins that burn in the scorching heat,
Dry, blue and flaky.
They all also have skinny limbs and inflated bellies,
Not because their parents fed them with goodies,
But because they suffer from all sorts of deficiencies.

This is bravery,
The bravery failed to be demonstrated by all these apparent peace making authorities.
Welcome to reality.
The reality you’ll never see on T.V.,
Or hear of in the speeches of presidents from the most powerful countries.

The presidents who sleep in their cosy beds,
And enjoy the comfort of various electrical facilities.

You see when the sun goes down in this town,
Explosions and screams are the only audible sound,
And the only light we see,
Is that of burning tires and bodies.

And there you are complaining about a power failure that lasted an hour or three.
I guess it’s only fair,
Since I deserve no rights or freedom being a citizen of a third world country.

The country with a high rate of infant casualties,
And escalating child labor rate speaking statistically.
Here the worst news for a family could be that of a pregnancy,
This child if born, would be abused,
Mentally,
Physically,
And sexually,
Regardless of its gender, strength, and capabilities.
This child will be orphaned sooner or later,
He’ll work for companies and factories as a toddler,
To provide his dying loved ones with bread and water,
And if he dares to speak,
He’ll be labeled as a traitor,
And get sent off to prison later.

But hey, don’t worry,
Don’t bother helping me,
Don’t make use of your freedom of speech.
You’ve got your shiny cars and money,
Why care about me?
I’m just a war child,
On me don’t waste your time,
I’ll be just fine.