A white picket fence and garden chairs, Natasha had her perfect backyard all planned out. She kept telling herself that one day, her land would be free for her to live a normal life.
Their valley had been under occupation for decades. Grandpa had joined the resistance, Grandma and other women in the neighbourhood would pelt the vicious army with as many stones as they could carry.
“Natasha,” Mother’s eyes filled with tears.
Natasha bent down near her Mother’s wheelchair.
“Mum, I have to do this, just like Grandma and you,” she said, softly.
“I don’t want you getting hurt, like me,” Mother held her daughter’s hand.
“I’ll still be back out there, fighting for my freedom.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” Mother wiped her face fiercely.
The crowd swelled as these citizens bravely faced off against the ruthless soldiers.
State run papers ran stories of “terrorists” being paid by outside forces to throw stones at soldiers.
“We’re not terrorists, we’re freedom fighters!” roared the resilient nation of men and women, refusing to submit.