In Chong Liming's memory, where he grew up, the sky was always gray and lifeless. Everyone was silent, hiding their faces behind the yellow sand flying in the sky, and lingering in despair.
He heard from his father's generation that he did not belong to this country. He came from the far east, the faraway place called "China".
Sometimes he would sit on the roof and inexplicably think of that country located "in the middle of the world". He would wonder if there would be endless sand and dust flying there, and if there would also be uninterrupted war.
War seems to have never stopped ravaging this small country, just like human greed has never stopped invading the world. For countless nights, he would be awakened by the sound of gunfire, and then huddle in the darkness, letting fear erode his nerves bit by bit.
And when I saw that person, it was also on a night like this, with the roar of gunfire rushing towards my face, mixed with the smell of dry earth and blood.
That day, April 1, was the first month of the war in Iraq.