Love For My Brother This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

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   The Russian War in my country, Afghanistan, deprived many families of their lives between 1976-1990. My brother and I were playing in the yard as the missile hit the ground and destroyed everything around the house. I will never forget my brother, Zulmy's, death. The terrible and violent sound of the missile blast still remains in my ears. My family faced terrible troubles in those difficult days.

One peaceful evening, Zulmy and I were playing soccer in the yard. He almost beat me when I heard a sharp sound. "The missile! The missile!" I shouted to Zulmy and jumped into a nearby ditch. I did not know what Zulmy did. The thunderous sound of the missile went through my ears. After a few minutes I found myself in dust and mud, away from the yard. I could not move any part of my body and thought that I was dead. I did not know if I was in hell or heaven.

As I regained consciousness, I moved toward Zulmy. He was soaked with blood like a piece of flesh in a butcher's shop. I shouted, "Mom! Look what happened to Zulmy! Come on, hurry up!" When she came and saw him, she started crying and screaming. My father was out of town, which made the situation even harder for me. We called for an ambulance, but unfortunately we could not find one, so we went to the hospital in a taxi. The doctors took him to the operating room. About twenty minutes later the doctor came out and said, "I am really sorry ..."

"Stop it," I said to the doctor and moved toward my mother who was praying for Zulmy's life. My sister was also with her. They cried and shouted as I told them this heartbreaking news. I still remember my sister crying, "Zulmy, come back, don't leave us."

I took my mother and sister home. I told them that Zulmy had gone forever. He would not live with us any longer. They had to face this tragedy, for the more they cried, the more they disturbed poor Zulmy's soul. According to Muslim religion, after a person's death people should not cry; it disturbs the death's soul. So my mom and sister had to restrain their grief and let him be calmly and peacefully.

The next morning poor Zulmy was shrouded in white cloth. My neighbors, relative and I took his body to the graveyard and buried him on the top of a green hill. We all prayed for God to forgive his sins and give him a place in heaven.

Experiencing Zulmy's death, I know now the experience of tragedy. I don't have hate for those who shot the missile, but I do for war that destroys family. If we could be more patient with and tolerant of others, maybe there would be no more wars. c


This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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