Picture a girl. She's in her teens. Every day brings a fresh horror of chemical storms. Five days each week she travels to her battleground. The law enforces this.
Every way the girl turns she sees missiles cruising, not aimed at her specifically but often they hit home.
Propaganda is just as dangerous. Ideas repeated over and over would trap her in a tiny cage. All it takes is for her to stop fighting, to stop eating and shorten her skirt, smile and keep her mouth shut.
But this girl is a soldier, trained by me since the day she was born to fight. Every day she wakes to the sound of those missiles and I make her breakfast while we talk tactics. In the evenings we tackle the propaganda while disseminating the day's battle.
There will be no peace. Not in my lifetime. Perhaps, if she fights well, she will find some for herself.
My daughter is a soldier. She is my pride and joy.
