A Reflection after four months of War.
This war will end. Also, the next one. The bigger ones will also at a certain point. There will always be an end because even lives end. A war is smaller than life. It is part of our lifetime. It is not the whole world. It is not "Time". But what actually is "Time"? How can I get hold of the exact meaning and not the metaphor. It is slippery. As if it is nothing but a trace of a past moment. By the time I realize what happened, the happening is not there anymore. I am slow.
This war will end. I am positive. However, there will be traces. Traces of its time and its disgrace. Disgrace of being ashamed of myself as I helplessly try every morning to escape the impact of my nightmares by stretching my muscles using basic yoga positions as I contemplate about the way I will arrange the lunch box for my two children before as the sun rises. It is tormenting that I am fully aware of the fact that the feet of their peers are shivering of cold at the same moment I am heating their morning cup of milk.
The war will end but our scars will remain. We will live with them disgracefully for decades and we will pass them to our youngsters. Personally, I might even pass hatred and arrogance against western fake principles about justice, rights and equality. I might make fun of national anthems, emblems and iconic speeches of leaders and diplomats. I might be labeled as the disrespectful nihilist uncle or grandfather. This will be probably my only way to survive with my own contradictions and identity crises.