My Freedom Comes in Quiet Breaths

Beyond my door is rubble. The dreary greys of crumbled buildings, their broken pieces covered in the dust of destruction. Once, they stood tall, and we took those moments for granted. We only appreciated their steadfast presence after we lost it. I am among the lucky ones who have walls sturdy enough to provide a roof over my head. It isn't the home I knew, but it keeps me sheltered from the elements.

There are too many left here without that luxury. Without the security of something we once saw as simple. Four walls that stood and supported a ceiling. Though we receive help from other countries---neighbors and friends---they cannot understand the feeling of standing in a place you were once so familiar with, and to no longer recognize it.

I walk along cracked paths that were once streets upon which cars drove. Machines of war have left these roads torn apart, but they will be repaired in time. They can be repaired, now that the silence has set in. It will take time and resources, but we are strong. We've been forged through fire.

A cloth doll sitting against a pile of rubble on the path catches my attention, and I kneel down to pick it up. Smoothing down its hair, I wonder if its owner misses it. If they notice that it's been left behind as their parents rushed to take them somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

I carry it with me as I continue towards what was once the city's center and bustling marketplace, though I have no hope of finding its lost owner. Few others roam with me, taking in the sights that they once knew so well. Sights that have been irrevocably changed by the scars of war.

Others walk these paths with me, heading to the city center with trinkets and candles cradled in their arms. Some bring flowers that they've found growing in abandoned yards or fields. They cannot give tributes to the fallen of the caliber they deserve, but war cares little about who you are. What you do for a living. Which small things bring you joy.

War is an unfeeling beast whose indifference breeds brutality.

It takes with insatiable greed, uncaring in the loss it brings or the lives it ruins. Though the end has been officially declared, nothing that we've lost can be returned. The destroyed homes cannot be rebuilt as they were, memories and mementos lost or broken in the collapse of the walls meant to hold and protect them.

Where there was once a fountain in the middle of the city center, there is instead an array of gifts left on the pile of rocks and between their crevices. Flowers stick out from the concrete, as though life could survive and overcome this destruction. Perhaps it can, but it will be a long process. A slow process of which I have little hope seeing the fruition.

There are stuffed animals in the pile, along with candles and notes written with well-wishes for the future or in remembrance of the lost. Though we grieve for that which we can never have back, we strive to create a better future.

Gone is the chorus of gunshots and commands being yelled. The roar of machines made to destroy and footsteps of men sent to take. Instead, there is only the silence of we who remain. We who have gathered together because we are stronger united.

I hear only the wind as it snaps the flag high upon the flagpole. It might be a touch singed. It might have a few tears and fraying edges. But it is still blue and yellow.

It is still ours.