“Are we really just going to leave all our things behind, Mama?”

It was early morning. Bright stars still making their brilliant presence in the night sky, with the moon reflecting their elegance. A blast shook the compound, knocking Dr. Patel out of the bunk she was sleeping. The lights that hung from the ceiling, swayed back and forth, a shorted connection caused them to flicker on and off. The commanding officers’ voices rang out with an urgency, “Get out! Get out. Every soldier, with their combat gear, ran from the bunker to the bomb shelter across the court. Dr. Patel saw sergeant Bishop and asked, “where is Johnson?”

“I’m here captain.” Standing behind her, panting, and out of breath, nurse Johnson, stood bent over.

“Good, come, we have to keep moving,” she instructed her team. Another blast. Bombs were lighting up the sky resembling fireworks on the Fourth of July.

In the village, families were scrambling to get their children gathered, calming them and preparing once again to seek safety in a bomb shelter, after having a few years of normalcy. “Hurry children,” their mom said without alarm. Outside, a stream of people were carrying what they could of their households heading to the shelter in an orderly fashion.

The villagers have gone through this so many times, it did not phase them as much as you would imagine.

Their father came to the door, ushering his three children and wife out. The oldest daughter, Samaya, paused, looking back inside to what had become their home, and asked. “Are we going to leave all of our things that you worked so hard to provide us?”

Samaya’s mother, with a light, assuring smile, looking at her, and husband, said, "we only have these things because Allah ta ala provided for us. Inshallah, he will again."

© Clover Journesy 9/8/2021

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