Sometimes... sometimes I wish that they would just sit down, Putin and our governor, and agree to share the country. But war does not work that way. It never does.

Alexa always used to say that "we have reached the bottom, there is nowhere to go but up." Now I am starting to wonder if that is true, even though I have not dared doubt her words since she left. There are organisations to help orphans, but they keep the younger children a priority. Not me. Not a young child, but not yet a lady.

Since Mama and Papa died in the bombing three years ago, I praise God I am alive.

I have had little schooling since the war came, and we had to flee to Ingushetia, which is not much nicer than Chechnya. A very small orphaned girl, perhaps four or five years old, came up to me yesterday, and asked if I had any food. I clutched the child tightly to me, and sobbed and sobbed. What have we done for Him to punish us such? Has God forgotten us?

Maybe he has. I heard men saying today that over 200,000 Chechnyan people have become refugees to Ingushetia. Not everyone has been displaced, but I know their hearts have.

I remember Mama used to tell us about life before the war, when we were still part of the Soviet Union, because I was too young to remember. We had food, electricity, water, a house. The sounds were different too. Instead of the BOOM sound of bombs, screaming, and women sobbing, there was laughter, children playing, and the friendly smell of the bakery.

Something happened yesterday. I was sitting on some boxes on the side of the road, fixing the holes in my sandals, when I heard a shouting. There was a man, his face red and his tunic battered, yelling and fighting with 2 Russian officials. Immediately I felt admiration for this man, but also worry. Other people around me whispered to the man to stop it, he was going to get killed, but he kept talking. "You do not care at all, do you?" He spat at the officials. " Killing children, tearing apart a country at the very bare threads of society, dropping bombs like valentines. Lord, see our pain!" Then, I saw one of the men pull out his gun. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, tears streaming down my face. Oh, even now I can barely speak of it. The shot echoed, leaving a mark far more painful on our people than the one man's death.

But my face still rises, as the sun, every new day.