I’ve been living this war for 30 years. I always hoped my children wouldn’t have to live fearing loud noises or planes flying over head. Or coming home from school with tears in their eyes as they explained to me what happened to their dear friends.

I did my best. The best any mother could during war times. But it was never enough.

My oldest, Ali. Poor boy was just 17. The soldiers came with their guns and he threw himself infront of the younger children. He was so brave like that.

Arkham. My sweet boy. Those demons were throwing out bombs shaped like cans of food, knowing we were all starving.

Halima. My only daughter. She was just 9. The bombs hit our house and I could not find her under the rubble. There is no greater pain than begging the men who came to help to find my daughter, only for them to find her teeth.

I kept them in a gorgeous box I carried with me, lined with gold and inlaid with jewels. I tell people, “my children are in there.”

I kept all they’re teeth. It was all I could take. I wait for the day the bombs will take me, so Allah can take me away to live in Jannah with my children.