Losing my innocence in the bomb shelter 

I see my neighbours all the time now, in the bomb shelter. 

We sit together in a place filled with fear, cut off from the rest of the world, waiting for permission to return to it. Every time the adults see each other, they get disappointed because it means another siren, another bomb attack. 

But the kids are always excited. They go down to the bomb shelter, hoping for a siren; the excitement draws them in. They’re not afraid of the bombs, of the explosions. They see it as an experience. I asked the kids what they thought about the war, and they all said they were happy since they didn’t have school. 

I wish I could see it that way.  

But I’m no longer like that. I’m like the adults. Every siren is a disappointment. 

But I can still appreciate the children’s point of view. I can cherish their youth and innocence, their ability to see the world with an open mind.  It inspires me.  

And I want them to stay that way. I want them to live in a world that allows them to preserve that innocence, something that cannot be regained once you outgrow and lose it. 

Every generation, once they become adults, says, “I want to change the world for my kids. I don’t want them to grow up with the pain and loss I grew up with. I want them to grow up and live as children, the way all humans deserve.” I remember my parents saying the same thing to me.