Generational inheritance of war

By Abe Nouk
Hand on concrete by pixabay

We grew up on streets so rough the concrete was soft, even though we were lucky.

We have never felt loved, for we were always looked upon as toy soldiers. I am the product of a society that decided to use children as child soldiers.

Instead of wearing nappies we wear camouflage, instead of baby bottles they put guns in our hands and were persuaded to think as men in advance. Only ten years old, he wanted to refuse but had nowhere to go. In his mind, this isn’t the life that he was destined to be, he just wanted to be free.

My hopes are constantly diminishing as we are reminded of what we have become, preachers of pretentious love.

The only place where we should never run from is still keeping us at a distance because hatred still exist there, and a new generation of youth, are witnessing what hatred looks like.

It still hasn’t changed the format is the same, it’s bullets loaded in guns and pointed in the name of revenge, hatred that is still being imparted through the inheritance of generational warfare. The streets are still rough.

The concrete soft and children are still being trained while dreaming of freedom.

And so the stigma of having lived as a refugee remains something people will struggle to understand and that’s understandable. Some people have asked me, “Have you been back home?”

The irony is if I could be anywhere in the world, I should be home. The trouble is home does not even know I exist.

I used to think living overseas was temporary yet it’s fast approaching permanent.

Never took it for granted. But unless you understand the hurdles then you are far from understanding the predicament.

The problem is the diligent task of trying to fit in.

Learning a new language, one of the perks is you lose yours.

I got so good speaking English; I lost my mother’s native tongue.

Will I ever be forgiven?

Will I be able to learn it back?

How am I supposed to do that when I’ve never been home and I highly doubt I ever will and, by the looks of things I highly doubt they’ll ever want us back. But it’s all good, I reminisce about the home I will never have. Said it’s all good when it isn’t, I cannot keep lying to myself. How is it good when I’ve never met grandma? Never got to trace her wrinkles, never got to walk within her shadow or be showered by the kisses grandchildren get.

I have missed out on so much, hearing what home is about a part of me cries a part of me dies, it isn’t all good. I reminisce about the home I will never have. When asked “have you been back home?”, in my heart I cry but my face never shows it cause I smilingly answer, “if I could be anywhere in the world, I would be home”, the trouble is home doesn’t even know I exist.

So I remain a stranger knocking at somebody else’s door they peek but, at least they notice and what most people don’t understand is, when you become a refugee, regardless of how many citizenships you get, you remain a refugee. The title is forever. And we just learn to live with being branded with a title that is both despicable and a privilege, a privilege because we are still alive and I will take being a live any day.

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