During the war, water became something special. It didn’t come from a tap anymore. You had to go out and look for it. This ritual did not end when the bombing slowed down. I still do the same thing. Usually twice a day, every day, I take a bucket and start walking, sometimes about a kilometer, sometimes more. Information about where to find the water travels by word of mouth: we ask around and we start the search. Every time I arrive there are already many people waiting holding buckets or plastic containers. The bucket full is much heavier than the bucket empty. On the way back it pulls on my arm and shoulder. By the time I reach the tent — or wherever I am staying — most of my strength has trickled away. I need to sit down, and then I try to write.
Words and Bombs
