That day after a rainy night I headed to the Berxwedan refugee camp that is located in Fafin area to monitor the situation of displaced people from Afrin there. The weather was burning, the sun was bright in the sky biting the exhausted faces of women and children. Everything in the tents was wet after that rainy night, all their mattresses and sheets that they use when they sleep, it was their first night, but won’t be their last.

The residents of the camp started their day with dawn, the women emptied the tents from their contents which were nothing more than some the aids boxes, sheets, thin mattresses not exceeding five centimeters separate their bodies and gravel ground.

They carried them on their shoulders so that they dry in the sun.

The men were busy moving the gravel and fill the water holes outside and inside the tents, while some of the children helped them bringing water from the large trucks and some other kids were playing with gravels in that crowd.

The faces of the people seemed to be different in every way, you could’ve seen a different expression when you looked in their eyes, feelings of hope and expectation, wishes of returning to their homes were so obvious.

I was stopped by an old woman sitting in front of her tent looking at me, she has hung up a quilt cover to rest under its shadow.

She looked tired holding a prayer beads pulling the beads so fast and praying, I asked her why she was praying in a hurry.

She raised her head, and pointed with her hand for me to sit beside her.

I sat beside her and suddenly she stretched her hand over my hair and shoulders, smiling in a glaze while she stared at me, she said in a husky voice "you are the same age as her".

“Who?” I asked.

She replied “Fatima... my daughter... she left me alone… Oh my dear Fatima how much I miss you"..

She held my hands in hers and continued saying, "they killed my daughter Fatima". Her words seemed to emerge hard from her throat.

I asked her who killed her…?

She answered: “I don’t know who was driving that damned jet that bombed my house in the village.”

She began to tell me about her daughter, how she was caring for her in her old age as she described how they lived in their small house in the village, and about her love of goats and small lambs that she took care of, and how she ran after the birds and butterflies, "she was full of life and energy" she said.

I was listening silently, she interrupted my thoughts when she asked if I can lean my head on her lap like her daughter used to do.

I smiled at her and did as she wished, thinking perhaps I can relieve her pains even for seconds.

She asked me, "now, do you want to know why God took my daughter so early?"

"I’m hoping that God be with our young women and men in their fights against those villains", her tears began sweeping down her cheeks as she began to sing a sad song.

"I want to go back to my home and village to collect the remains of my daughter's body, from above the olive branches and the grape vines in my house, I will hide her in my lap so no one can touch or hurt her.”

"I want to bury her in the field next to the house and plant a lot of roses on her grave... Fatima loves roses".

She added "I never realized that the entire world gathered together to kill Fatima.. I hear that Americans and Russians are together against us… Is that true?"

I nodded my head yes.

She said “I want for those bastards to know that Fatima’s mother curses them and that she will never give up her land and will return home despite everything.”

The grief-stricken mother wanted to plant her words carefully in the human conscience, perhaps one day peace will flourish.

Fatima’s mum is one of the hundreds of women in Afrin that lost their young children and family members because of the aggression.

Many of them couldn’t even bury the bodies or gather their scattered bodies because of jets and bombs, these women have in their hearts anger and indignation against the occupiers of their land, promising that soon the land will be free and cleansed from them.