Frag Out! Magazine
Issue link: https://fragout.uberflip.com/i/840553
from notebooks and textbooks. Shattered window glass crunched sadly underneath the soles of our boots. In one of the classrooms we have found about a dozen of singed school desks. Somewhere, on the stairs a popular car- toon heroine stared into the ceiling from abandoned pink toothbrush. Courtyards were smothered with rubbish, the walls screamed with slits left after the electric cords that have been pulled out of them. On one of them we noticed a meaningful inscription in red paint – Long live Peshmerga, fuck you Daesh. So far, children that have gotten back to Teleskuf attended schools in Alqush, a city located some few dozen kilometres away. Judging by the state of the ones in their own village, they would have to travel to get some education for a long time to come. I hope they stayed under the rubble When we were going to the meeting with the villagers we passed few buildings complete- ly wrecked by the bombings. Those were the ones that the so called fighters whose favou- rite pastime is putting young girls into cages and setting them on fire on marketplaces, have chosen for their quar- ters. Our driver looked at the rubble that used to be his neighbours' houses with a mixture of hate and despair. "I hope that at least one of them stayed underneath there" – he whispered. I was hoping that it was more than one… Just next to the rub- ble… I meant to write „lives" but that is not true. No one actually lives there. Those seven people who are poorest family in the village, lead their nomadic life in two rooms that they have cleaned the rubbish out of. They were only happy that the winter has come to an end. This family has lost everything. It was not even their own home. The one that was theirs, the one they have looked after and dreamed of in ex- ile got completely torn down by a bomb explosion. The church gave them a place they were in now. It was a building affected by a chlorine missile. Every deep breath brought stinging pain it the sinuses and pulsing headache. They were telling us that it was not that bad, that they have painted over walls in those two rooms they live in and aired them. But we were sitting in the same rooms. Perched on the edges of two beds we were inhaling the same air. And we knew exactly that it was bad. When we talked the light went out. As it turned out, it was abso- lutely normal power shortage. We have reached one of the most difficult moments. We have been counting, calculating, counting once again and ar- guing a little. Our funds were limited but there was no way we could live without helping those people. After consult- ing it all with the elders we left few hundreds of dollars for the most needy and decided to finance the purchase of the power genera- tor what would allow to get few shops up and running and may- be even open a small first-aid station. Zeravani generals wear polished shoes The night has passed as quickly as it has fall- en. We have had some more points on our map. Our guides told us straight up that it would be only getting worse. We were heading to Batnaya. Before we have reached the town that not that long ago was an ISIS stronghold, we met with a local Christian militia unit. Just after breakfast we got invited over to a nearby mil- itary base to have a tea with the general. He received us cordially. In his high polished patent leather shoes he looked like a good old uncle. I was wondering what his "normal" life was like. The life that war has completely turned around. I have already met soldiers that have previously been math- ematicians, teachers, painters, accountants. This, not very stern general that wickedly winked an eye at me could be one of them. I would not ask. His new rank and shining stars on his epaulettes made me feel some sort of strange esteem. He REPORT