Is this what life is supposed to be? I wonder? As I sit here watching my two sons grow, I wonder, is this the life I wanted to give them. I sit here on my bed and look at my home. It is sweltering hot and the four of us are stuck in this one room with no fans because the electricity has gone again. I hear on the radio that sometimes the temperature surpasses 100 degrees Fahrenheit, but it feels like more.

I look around this room, at the two chairs that I have had for 10 years, the small black and white T.V. whose screen is as large as the palm of my hand, and at the small refrigerator that can't hold five things at the same time.

I look around the room again and my eyes fall on some old pictures that I remember Bablu, my oldest son, had stuck up on the wall. There are a couple pictures of my wife and I right after our marriage and then there are a couple of pictures of me in my orchards in Kashmir. Oh, those beautiful orchards, with the cool breeze and sweet fruits. And all those green trees, with…

Suddenly, I am distracted by the clanging of dishes. My wife has begun to remove the lunch dishes from the sheet on the floor, but my youngest son is still eating. I watch him for a little while, and am amazed that my two year-old boy is eating by himself with his own hands almost like a little man. We have no family members here to help. I look at my wife and the way she is scrubbing the pots, how her hands have been scrubbed hard. I look at my older son doing his schoolwork. I smile he is a very smart kid that is what all his school teachers tell me. But then I see his pencil has been sharpened so much that it is only an inch long and his eraser has been broken into three tiny pieces. What can I do? Where have I come? Why have I come here, where dirty animals roam the streets and the reek outside is unbearable. My entire house consists of one room, even our bathroom we share with a couple other families. But in this one room my family has to do everything. Eat, sleep, work, how can my children do their home work where my wife is washing dishes and I am working and there is so much noise. My wife has to cook outside in the heat, and everyday I see that sweat pouring down her. I have seen it all. Even now she is sweating as are my two sons.

I look at my youngest son again and I see him saying something, he is calling to me, probably,

" Papa, Papa!!!" But I can't hear him. I have lost my hearing!

Many years ago when I was growing up in Sopore, Kashmir (India), we had a huge house, in which the cool breeze from the stream would flow in through the open windows. I never remember sweating so much there. The house was beautiful, all white, 4 stories and made completely out of stone, with a big yard. My father also had many fruit orchards and vegetable farms, as well as paddy fields, 10 miles away.

As I got older, Papa started taking me to the orchards to meet with the "Kakshars" or people who cultivated the fields and tended to the land, to find out about the harvest. When Ma and then Papa passed away, I took hold of the orchards and continued my Papa's business of selling fruit, auctioning vegetables from the farm and rice from the terraced paddy fields. I think I had a connection with those orchards and those trees. When Ma died I would go and talk to them and when Papa died I would tell them my secrets and aspirations. I really think they could understand me and I them. In the mornings I would go to orchards and fields, talk to the workers and make sure that everything was taken care of and things were in order. Then I would come home for lunch and then go do business and meet the people I sold fruit and vegetables to in the afternoon. My brother actually started his own trucking business and he would take the fruits where they would have to go.

But then suddenly all these terrorist problems started. Terrorists started coming into Kashmir and spreading terrorism, killing ruthlessly anybody who came in their way of " Azaadi" or freedom and killing any Kashmiri Hindus, like myself, that were there. Why would you need to kill unarmed and innocent people if you want "Azaadi" ? Slowly Hindus and many non-muslims started leaving Kashmir and going to other places in India. My brothers left too, but I stayed behind because I thought I belonged to this place, the plants and the trees recognized me, and I them. I could not bring myself to leave my native land. I had been warned, twice, by the terrorists to leave. These were called "fatwahs", or warnings. But I didn't leave. I had the comfort in knowing that I was surrounded by good neighbors and they would come to my rescue if ever I was in trouble.

But, one fateful day, the terrorists arrived at my house, in the middle of the night. I still remember the clock striking twelve as I opened the door to the black hooded figures, six in all with guns and pistols of different types. They didn't say anything, just grabbed my wrist and dragged me. I screamed and screamed calling out, but nobody came.

They took me to the edge of the river. Terrorists always killed people at the banks of the river Jehlum, so the body would fall in to the water and flow down. As they were taking me, I remember my knees shaking, my feet being extremely cold and my heart racing but my mind was rushing with the thoughts, " How can I escape?" I was ready for anything these terrorists might do to me. But when a terrorist tried to shoot me, at the river edge, the bullet whizzed by very close to my ear, so close that the loud noise of the bullet deafened my right hear. I reacted, I knew I had to do something otherwise they would kill me. I pretended as if the bullet had hit me and fell straight into the river. As I fell, I thrashed a bit and they all started shooting at me in the water. One bullet went right through my leg. I felt the searing pain and the blood rushing out of the bullet wound. I dove deeper in to the water and swam as fast as I could. I don't even know how long I swam, it felt like forever, and how I paddled with that injured leg, coming up occasionally for air. Gasping, I finally managed to reach the other bank. I hurried out of Kashmir not ever going back to my home, not even to say bye to my trees in the orchards.

Now I am here. In this Purkhoo Camp (ten miles away from a city called Jammu Tawi) as a refugee, where I have lived for over ten years. I have seen tough times. Times, I hope, no one will ever see. Even though I am deaf now, I have a spirit that can't be broken. I work very hard to provide a living for my family and have dreams of providing a better life to my children and their children. One day I will go back and take them to the land that was called " janat" or heaven, Kashmir, where I belong. My name is Pista and I am a refugee in my own country!

Now you will tell me "Juhi this can't possibly be a true story." But unfortunately it is. It is so true that I have met this man. This man who is almost deaf and has had a bullet through his leg. This man who has lost everything, everything to the hands of terrorists.

This summer I decided that I wanted to have an experience of a different kind. Now, when most teenagers say that they go to Hawaii and play on the beach, but I went to Jammu. This is part of the state Jammu and Kashmir (in India) where many Kashmiri Pandit refugees have run to after terrorism struck again in 1989. I went to several camps and camp schools, where kids didn't have anything. Here we whine about wanting walkmen's and our own TV's but there kids didn't have books and even shoes.

This summer I learnt that there is a life beyond my own. There are people who are refugees in their own country; struck by terrorism and have no where to go. People who don't have TV's, refrigerators or air conditioners. But inspite of having no possessions and living in miserable conditions, these people still have hopes and dreams and are working very hard to achieve them.