Author: Sayad Hasil
When Kiyya opened his eyes, all he could see was war. Gunfire, explosions, and rivers of blood surrounded him. He hated what he experienced and longed for a life that began with the songs of birds instead of the deafening roar of helicopters and jets. Kiyya was a child of war—a child whose reality was defined by conflict, not imagination or innocence. Children like him are worlds apart from those who merely see war in movies, video games, or on television.
Kiyya was from Balochistan, a land steeped in suffering, where the echoes of war were inescapable. In school, at the language centers, or even in his quiet moments, stories of violence and tales of atrocities filled the air. His world was a battlefield, both physically and mentally.
Though just a boy from Turbat, Kiyya was wise beyond his years. Unlike other children, he did not play games, watch movies, or even dream about a carefree life. His dreams were tainted by blood and grief. All he ever wanted was normalcy—a life where laughter replaced the sound of gunfire, where he could run through fields instead of navigating checkpoints, and where schools taught him about hope, not horror.
One day, as he wandered through his village, Kiyya observed the foreign soldiers who had invaded his homeland, patrolling his land, carrying weapons that had silenced so many of his people. Their faces were cold, unfeeling. Kiyya often wondered: when these soldiers returned home and saw their children, did they think of the innocent faces they had destroyed? Would they ever see the faces of the children they’ve orphaned, the mothers they’ve widowed, the homes they’ve reduced to rubble? Could they smell the blood of innocents on their uniforms, or had they become so numb to the horror that they no longer cared?
War, Kiyya thought, should never have been an option. For those who have experienced it, war is not glory—it is destruction, loss, and unending grief. He had seen homes turned to rubble, families torn apart, and people missing into the void of conflict. He had seen the living left behind, haunted by memories, forced to flee the land they once called home.
Leaving your home, your land, your people—it is a death in itself. It tears at the soul in a way no bullet ever could. For Kiyya and thousands of others like him, the scars of war were not just physical. They were etched deep into his mind and heart, a permanent reminder of a childhood stolen.
Kiyya’s story is not unique; it is shared by millions of children trapped in wars they never asked for. And yet, the world turns its eyes away, as though their pain is just another story. But for Kiyya, war was not a story—it was his life. A life he never chose. A life he never deserved.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of The Balochistan Post or any of its editors.