The birds didn’t fly on this side of town anymore. It’s almost as if they know not to come here, as if they know how the area holds the sad memories of a destroyed past.

            Plants couldn’t be seen much either. Of course, this might be evidence to the fact that we were driving through the Syrian desert, but you still got that feeling of bleakness which was particular to this region.

            The pebbles could be heard rumbling under the tires of the car as it struggled to make its way through the barren, abandoned paths. It was a typical movie scene. A few tumbleweeds trotted their way across the arid, cracked ground, lifting small puffs of dust that would have otherwise remained untouched for God knows how long. The soft dry wind provided for a low hum in the background of the depressing scene.

            Suddenly the car stopped.

            “This is it, this was our old home,” my uncle announced.

            I glanced around but all I could see was a mound of broken stones. Upon closer inspection, I could discern the remains of a concrete staircase which I assume had led to the roof of the house. It currently leads nowhere because the roof is now level with the ground and half-covered in the same tan earth that could be seen for miles and miles in any given direction. Soon enough it will be completely drowned in that tan color and joined with the rest of the world’s forgotten past.

            Forty-two years ago, this pile of rubble was all they had. Everything outside of the confines of their village (which was now surrounded with barbed wire and UN security posts) was unknown, foreign land. Through harsh winters and brutal summers, the townspeople held together. However, they and their national army were no match for the forces of the neighboring country, Israel, which at the time had decided to invade and take control of the region.