I'm sorry. Have to take a break after this post

Don't read this without tissues. Its a fucking tearjerker.

It’s early morning and there is the incongruous, cheery sound of birds chirping as this street rings with the bang of metal gates being kicked in and locks being wrenched apart – a grating sound like teeth being pulled out with pliers.

Purple bougainvillea spills from the high walls in front of the houses. The sunshine hasn’t begun to burn yet as soldiers from the Strykers 5th battalion 20th Infantry Regiment go from house to house looking for fighters and weapons in neighborhood thought to harbor al-Qaeda. There are no polite knocks. They operate on the assumption that when the gate or the door swings open there could be gunmen behind it.

At this house they’re met at the gate by Selma and her two eldest daughters, determined to leave for school despite the soldiers and armored vehicles in the streets and the possibility of getting caught in crossfire. The girls, dressed in black skirts and flowing white blouses with blue headscarves covering their hair, are more worried about being late. They’re sitting for high-school exams and the school was closed for the last two days because of fears by the government the students would be kidnapped.

“It will take us an hour to get there and we want to be on time,” says Yasmine, who is 17.

She and her sister Sabreen want to be teachers.

There are no taxis in the part of town and no cars in the street. Many of the families have fled to safety for Syria or northern Iraq. The girls’ father, a farmer, is too ill to take them to school. The phones don’t work and there is no local radio or TV station to tell them whether the school will be open.

“It won’t be dangerous for them?” her mother asks me. “I’m so afraid for them. Should I tell them it’s alright to go?” she asks me to ask the soldiers.

The platoon commander, 1st Lt Thomas Gaines tells her it’s fine. He radios to his soldiers moving through the neighborhood to let them know that the girls will be walking through the area.

‘”Thank you,” Yasmine says solemnly in her high school English. “Goodbye,” says Sabreen, enunciating each syllable.

Selma, watches them as they walk away. “I’m so afraid for them,” she tells me.

Jesus, but I wish I could write like this gal.

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