My Sister, Her Journal, and Me

The remains of the room are scattered about. Dusty burnt books lie on splintered bookshelves, next to tilted lamps threatening to crash to the floor. The ash-covered armchairs have been thrown against the wall from the force of the blast. The floor is unrecognizable, covered in a mix of concrete, glass, and flesh. I watch the plaster peeling off the ceiling, like skin peeling off a nasty burn. 

You know, my sister used to go here. The best university in the state. She took me to visit her dorm once. I clearly remember the common room. The soft tatreez carpet that padded the floor as I sauntered around, in awe at the towering bookshelves lining the walls. The calming scent of books worn down after years of use, old but loved. The way my sister lit the fireplace, filling the room with a warm flickering glow. The welcoming arms of the armchair as she plopped down, pulling me into a comforting embrace. Her cradling my small frame in her arms as we sat together on the soft leather cushions. 

I asked her about the books that filled the shelves. She said something about them having a lot of “rich, cultural history,” and would go on and on about their contents. She really liked history. She then went and sat in this big fancy chair, behind an ornate wooden desk, writing in her nice leather-bound journal that Amma and Abbu got her. She read her writing to me, and I listened as all her detailed, organized thoughts floated out of the page and filled the room. 

I wished I could stay there forever, listening to the sound of her voice, the crackling of the fireplace. Feeling her arms wrapped around me. Just my sister, her journal, and me. 

My sister told me that when I went to university then I could sit in the chair and write in the journal. That I could inherit her passion, her drive. That I could achieve the bright, burning future that I knew awaited her. I couldn’t wait to join her. 

That is, until the fireplace was snuffed out. 

I can see a journal lying on the desk, hidden under bits of wood and plaster. The restless pages turned, revealing the fancy cursive handwriting that filled the page. Next to the journal lay a pen. Next to that, a hand. I can’t bring myself to look at the chair behind it. I already know what I’ll see. 

I don’t know why they did this. We didn’t do anything wrong. And what will remain in the aftermath of this senseless destruction? Just broken buildings. Empty stomachs. Rotting corpses. 

All this pain. All for nothing.