Kashmir 1992

That winter I think
I was fifteen.
We had gathered
for an early breakfast.
I raised the tea cup to my morning
lips and savored the taste of
lipton tea leaves on the papillae
of my tongue. The smell of
freshly churned butter,
the aroma of the oven in the
bread, the snowy painting
outside the kitchen window, and
the loud bang on the door.
Thrump, thrump, ten army
boots, black leather and brown
mud. Faces cold from the
winter air, index fingers curled and
hugging the triggers of their AK-47s,
ready to squeeze.
They took the men from
their breakfast tables, dragged
them out of their warm electric
blankets, and transported them
in the back of their green cattle
trucks to a playground two
kilometers from the village.
The women stayed behind in
their homes. The entire village
cordoned off, and the roads lined
with green army trucks and
green army jeeps. We walked
in a single file, our hearts
walking faster than our legs.
I could hear my heart breathe,
shiver and heave. I could feel it
move, squirm and shriek.
A helpless dog ready to be
put down. I heard vioces,
millions upon millions, crying
out from the past.
We did not care for our lives.
We were worried for our
mothers and daughters.
Would the Indian army rape
my sister or kill my
neighbor's mother?
Would they shoot all of us?
I survived, many did not.
I lived to tell about it, others
did not. It was not CNN, nor
the BBC, it was one ordinary
winter day,
rather beautiful,
with horrors happening.