The sun was almost at its peak; people were leaving work for lunch and to seek the cool shelter of their homes. A column of black smoke began to slowly rise into the sky. But this was no time to rest for a young boy, about 12 years old. This boys name was Abdikarim, but his friends called him Dik.

Young children ran wild; enjoying the freedom. Among them was Abdikarim. During the work hours the adults would yell at the kids for playing in the street, but now they were free to do what they pleased. Many of them were playing soccer, with a half flat ball and a goal made of two barrels. But Dik was to busy exploring the ruins of what was once their school. It had been destroyed only weeks previous by the cross-fire during a Pakistani patrol of the area. Most of the walls were still in tact, but the inside was completely burnt. A RPG round had entered through the wall and didn’t explode until it had reached the middle of the building, causing a massive fire, burning all their books and desks. Now Dik was venturing to the fragile upper floor. He wanted to see his classroom, that he had hated, completely demolished. But just as he began to scale the wall, he heard the faint sound of gun shots and then screaming from every direction. All the children playing soccer had already started running home, and Abdikarim quickly caught up with them. But in the midst of the crowd he tripped, scraping his arm on the dirt street, and then quickly shielding his face from the hard blows of the children’s feet. After the swarm of kids cleared, Dik ventured to stand. He was wincing at the throbbing pain in his arms. He then continued to run home, where his mothers was waiting by the door, crying in the fear that he had been killed in the gun fire.

            He knew something was happening, something very bad. He had remembered being told something about the black smoke in the sky by his teacher, but couldn’t remember exactly what it meant, at least until he heard a strong pounding on the door. His father apprehensively opened the door, being sure to only open it enough for him to see who it was. Just seconds later, the door flew open, knocking my father to the ground. In walked a large man, with a gun situated on his shoulder. He then began to reprimand my father for being so weak. It was scary to see his father, who had been such a strong voice of authority, being yelled at like a little child. The man dragged Dik’s father to his feet and began to lead him forcefully out of the door, but then in the corner of his eye he saw Abdikarim cowering behind a chair. He yelled a mumbled command to another gunman outside, and in ran a smaller but still intimidating man. The larger man pointed at Dik and the smaller one ran over and grabbed him, throwing him over his shoulder and the two men moved Dik and his father outside onto the street. There idling was a large pickup truck with a 50 caliber machine gun mounted on the roof of the cab. Another man who was waiting by the truck opened the gate. He told them to get in and sit down, and they did not resist, having just noticed the guns around all the necks of all the men. Dik put his head down, and for the first time in many years, he began to cry.