In Memoriam: The Children of Nice, A Poem by Juveria

War in itself is a phenomenon that can never inspire a cheerful thought. The most horrifying part of war is the impact it has had on  children.

To force a child to witness gory death and destruction is to murder their innocence. 

Over the last 4-5 years, the world has been paralysed by war, terrorism and armed conflict. 

The plight of children amidst these war-torn areas is the most disturbing thing.

When the Bastille Day attack happened in Nice this year, The Hindu newspaper carried a heartrending photograph of a dead girl lying on the road, covered by a thermal blanket, with her doll lying beside her. This poem is inspired by that photograph, because it somehow seemed to have captured the silent suffering of all those children facing and fighting death and despair everyday, in different corners of the world. The poem is a tribute to them, in the hope that the screeches of rifles and blasts of missiles, are soon replaced by the delights of childhood in their lives. The poem  also marks our pledge against terrorism of any kind.   

I Saw his Eyes

The wheels were heavy, Mommy.

My ribs couldn’t take the strain.

They cracked and they punctured

My lungs and my heart.

You felt the air and saw the blood

Escaping my beaten body.

How red was the blood, Mommy?

How hot the air?

Did they tell you I once lived?

Will you remember I once lived?

Or will my brief stay 

Make you forget your daughter’s days?

Oh the days I had here, Mommy!

Bright and Cheerful.

Screams of laughter,

Shouts of joy, warm as chocolate,

Sweet as honey, fearless, like the night sky!

Screams, shouts, warm blood, sweet, sad Mommy…

I saw fear in the man’s eyes.

The man behind the heavy wheels of the truck.

They’ll tell you he was a monster.

Do not believe them,

For I saw his eyes.

And  in his eyes, I saw fear.
And I think he never felt love.

It is lonely without love, Mommy.

And you remember, I got scared when I was lonely?

So he was scared, Mommy.

Give him love.

Give them all love.

Not gun fire, please.

Mommy let me hear your voice.

Talk to me.

Tell me, “Sweetheart, it’s time to go home.”

Juveria Tabassum