Children of War - A Memoir

In shattered lands, young voices cry,
From Gaza’s streets to Sudan’s dry sky.
Four decades' scars on childhood's face,
War stole their dreams, left no safe place.

Those of us born in the 80s, marked by war,
Will know the path I’m about to walk
A child’s view of terror, far beyond the blast.
Bombs were not the fear, but the silence that followed.

In early ’91, bombs rained down on Baghdad
Operation Desert Storm lit the sky with fire.
The Iran war came before, but life went on,
Schools stayed open, until the Americans came.

The year ’91 lit the war in my mind,
A child under ten, eyes wide and kind.
I saw the flames on screens and skies,
Too young for truths, but old for cries.
When darkness fell, it wasn't sleep
Just war’s old trick to make bombs miss and weep

By oil lamp’s glow, we waited in fear,
Strange shapes would whisper when danger drew near.
My little brother and I saw ghosts in the night,
While Mother said gently, “There’s nothing in sight.”

While bombs echoed loud, my father worked fast,
Fixing the house, hoping safety would last.
Some nights grew too heavy, we fled to the gloom,
A shelter of prayers and soft cries in the room.
Candles in fists, Muslim, Christian and Yazidi prayed,
As sweat and fear in the shadows stayed.

I never forgot our shelter’s that night
The news of al-Amiriyah struck with fright.
Four hundred souls burned where they hid,
Mothers and children, no wrong they did.
After that day, home felt more safe,
Though war still raged, we kept our faith.

With schools shut down, we slept through the day,
Nights stole our rest as bombs lit the way.
My father watched news with a hopeful tone,
While the anchor’s calm voice lulled us at home.

Food was scarce, and silence grew loud,
My parents' whispers turned into clouds.
Behind closed doors, their voices would break
War strains more than just what bombs can take.
One day, my father hugged me tight and said,
“I’m leaving, be strong”, his eyes quietly bled.

And leave he did, with three uncles in tow,
Leaving families behind, with heartbreak in a row.
I clung to my father more than the rest,
His absence carved a wound in my chest.
A year and a half until we embraced again,
While Mother bore storms, alone in Jordan’s strain.
Three children in tow, foreign tongue in her ear
Only God knows the weight she held in fear.

The rest is history; a Western country shaped my childhood and teens,
Then life moved on beneath the UK’s scenes.

As an adult travelling to France one day,
A raid siren wailed in its routine way.
But in my mind, the haunting sound
Pulled me back to the battleground.

War leaves no scars the eyes can see
But it lives in echoes that never set you free.

Gaza stirs old memories I cannot erase
Limbs on the ground, no time, no place.
Cries in the smoke, names torn from breath,
As loved ones searched through rubble and death.

My pain was nothing beside Gaza’s cries,
Or Sudan’s children under gloomy skies.
What they’ve endured and still enduring haunts today
May God forgive our silent delay.

Hibatallah Alazzawie