We were playing outside. It was cold, so I went inside to change into shoes. One of my friends was among them, outside playing. There were five of us, and one of my close friends was also there. He looked just like me. There was a bombing. I was asked to stay inside and go hide in the bunker. There are these wooden baskets used to carry food called Seppo. It was so disintegrated that they had to carry the remains of this friend in one of these Seppos.

There was the usual bombing right at the place I had left a few seconds ago. Two out of those four people playing with me died.

I was close to one of these guys. I was pretty young to understand death at that time. There were no photos back then. However hard I try now, I cannot remember his face.

A friend I lost that day.

And I am not worried about any of his family, myself, or anyone else’s loss, but what pains me is the thought of that kid losing a shot at living a life he would have loved and enjoyed.

As I grew up, I understood death, pain builds in parts over ages, slowly making me realize the harshness of our situation, of my childhood. We were living in bunkers as soon as the shelling started. For a significant part, we had to live in a small house away from home. Since, our home was too close to a war-prone area.

On the surface, it would seem all fine in the later years, but there were so many displaced people. Essential nutrition, education, everything was missing. When you live around an area where there might be shelling, and you might just die; a constant fear and mental health issues which accumulate over the years.

Every one of us has a mark, a physical wound left behind, and not just on our bodies, but our mental health as well. So many people were just mentally disturbed.

And it was years ago, we could go away from the war zones, since the weapon range was still limited. People today so easily talk about wars. Where will we run, if war was to be today? It would be our soldiers, fighting their soldiers, and us normal people dying in the process. And when I say their soldiers, they would be people who were once part of our land, were our people.

They were our people, my grandfather was in sixth class when he was stuck on this side of the border. His whole family was on the other side of the wall. And he was stuck in this part of the border. But it was different back then, he lived, tailored, worked, and built a family.

He was finally able to meet his own family after 55 years. It took him 55 years to be allowed to travel 150 km.

Distances, imagine being away from someone you loved, and never seeing them again.

So essentially, over both sides of borders, there are families, with scattered members who sometimes have the same roots. And now you had people from the same families, joining the army, fighting for their lands, and fighting in negative extreme temperatures. And then their families of those same people, on both sides, living, surviving the consequences of the wars.

Even with wars over, with physical scars and mental hurt, the remains stay everywhere around. There are so many uncleared landmines. Once a little girl got near the mine and brought a grenade home, it exploded and she died. Wars just don’t get over the instant firing stops. It all stays the fear over days and months of not knowing when the shelling might start. Years of starvation, lack of resources, and deprivation from the entire world, make it difficult for you to go out and compete in a world, not acknowledge the unrequited childhood offered to you.