When the War Ends, Mama...

One day, my child asked me:
"Mama, when will the war end?"
I didn’t answer.
Then, with eyes still glimmering with the remnants of a dream, he added:
"When the war ends, I want to eat lots of chocolate. I want to buy a big toy plane. And I want to go to the park so I can play with my sister and laugh a lot."

I smiled, though something inside me burned.
What kind of war steals a child's right to sweets, to play, to simple outings in the sun?
What kind of world is this, where a piece of candy becomes a distant wish, and a toy is postponed until after the ceasefire?

How do I explain to him that in another country, a child doesn’t have to wait for “the end of a war” to eat what they want or play as they please?
That some children sleep soundly in soft beds and don’t flinch at every tremor in the wall?
That some mothers don’t have to sell their clothes to buy flour... or hide breadcrumbs in plastic bags for emergencies?

My child doesn’t ask for much.
He only wants to live a normal day.
To buy a toy without us calculating how much money will be left for bread.
He wants joy.
To eat without sharing his portion with his little sister out of fear there won’t be enough.
To drink a cup of milk sweetened with a little sugar.
To sit beside me as we count out little homemade biscuits together.

He doesn’t know when all of this will end.
But he comforts himself by saying:
"When the war ends, Mama, we’ll live."

And I—
I cling to that hope.
Because it’s all I have.
Waiting for the dawn of a new day,
One that smells of orange blossoms and lemon trees instead of ash and blood.
A day when my little ones eat what they crave,
And laugh without fear.