IN These Moments I Take Paper and Pen
I was 11 years old when the war came to my hometown, Doboj. My mother brought my grandmother and me to Croatia so that we would be safe. But my mother couldn’t leave her cleaning job, so she went back to Bosnia. We all thought that the war would end soon.
Every day, for a year, I said to myself, “This is the day that I will go home to Mama.” That day never came. Once I dreamed that my mother was standing by my window, calling my name, but when I woke up, no one was there.
It has been three years since I have seen my mother, and I miss her so much. I am especially lonely when I see other children talking with their mothers. Then I think, “I have no one to hear my secrets.” The worst part is that I can’t remember what my mother looks like. If I passed her on the street, I would just walk by.
I want to die when I feel that I will never see my mother again. In these moments, I take paper and pen and write a poem. I could tell my feelings to a friend, but I feel stronger and safer writing them down. Then all my suffering is on paper.
Ramiza Ahmetovic, 14