The faces of murderers are red, the street, the weather, the soil is red
I dream I am a teacher
The wind was blowing, distributing her black and white hair coming out from her old scarf. She could hardly hear her children’s voices and their crying.
When I was a child, stories about heroines and brave women were always astonishing to me, whether they were real, legends or fairy tales.
People were not paying much attention to the hand and it seemed as if it had been there for a few days because its color had changed to gray. My father told me not to look, but I had already seen it. I asked my father why it had been cut off.
It was a timeless autumn, the day the sky darkened. People worried it was not a good sign. The sound of the wind was so loud, the sun disappeared. Soon, the people learned a monster had come to occupy the land.
I collected bullet casings from my yard and used them in my games. I made toys from pieces of cotton and wood and played with them. It never occurred to me children in another part of the world were playing with modern toys and dolls. I was a happy and cheerful girl.
Many years ago when I was a little child, my grandmother told me stories every night. Her stories were usually about angels, jinn (similar to genies), fairies, or monsters. I was curious about all these creatures, but I was interested mostly in angels.
Although these are busy days, I love my life. I love my job, my school, my classmates and my colleagues, and they love me. That is what motivates me to overcome every difficulty.
In my grandmother’s stories, there is goodness and wickedness, but good always triumphs. Good people are always successful. The girl in the mirror is as cheerful as a shining sun and she is able to smile no matter what happens.
History is changed by the small actions of ordinary people. —Zahra A.
Click the button above or here to learn more about donating to AWWP.