“We have nothing to eat. I’m so sorry,” I tell my son. My heart is breaking. I brought him into this world to nourish him, take care of him.  Have I failed him? I feel defeated. Starvation and turmoil surround us. The streets are filled with garbage from looters, and the homeless. Fighting erupts amongst people desperate for food and water. What has become of our village? Our life? The beauty that surrounded us is now gone. I remember picking mangos from the trees in our yard. In the afternoons we would listened to musicians while we danced on the street.   All a distant memory drowned out by a reality of shattered dreams.

We are nearing the border. My son wraps his arms around my neck. “We are almost there. Hope is over that hill my child. We will find it,” I tell him. We reach the top of the mountain and up ahead we see it. Our salvation. We slowly approach the soldiers standing guard. They allow us to pass.  I hold my son’s hand tighter. Hundreds of us march across the border.  We were uninvited guests in a new land. But we had no choice.  Die or flee.  We chose life.  As we crossed into this new territory, the villagers stood waiting for us.  They knew what we had endured and welcomed us with open arms.  They gave us food and water.  I looked at my son as he ate and I was at peace.  We were safe. This would be our second chance. This would become our new home.


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