Only the dead have seen the end of war

What I can say is that the light was improving when I left. The gods were playing with the dials and turning it up just a notch. The mountains in the background had a frankness about them and sat well among the helicopters and multi-armed agents of peace and state preparing like me to get the hell out of there. But I was thinking about the depressed faces I saw by the side of the road as we were driving there. I wasn't just thinking about myself. People who have known only war, I mean. The tormented. The angry. The fragmented. It was easy enough for me. I was at the end of my first phase and about to return home. But for those whose country I was leaving, it was misery as usual, just as it's ever been - life as a lingering, blistered lack. That said, I also found myself discussing the artist to a man with incredible eyes and elite skills also waiting to board the plane, the tail-fin of which was reflected in the large round window set like a clock among the cracking white paint of the small airport terminal building. Towards my right, a man sat alone in a ramshackle garden with a satellite-pointed laptop on his knee. Young soldiers squeezed their chins with fingers and thumbs and one old man tried to light an old heater but gave up in the end. Battle-hardened vehicles sat like warriors a few meters away, but I wouldn't be needing them for another while. It was cold - where I was standing was exposed to the winds from the mountains - and I was thinking about childhood. On the bus to the plane we were asked to disembark in groups of five and were rigorously searched. 'New threat,' said the fixer. I watched as the man I had been speaking to got through and safely boarded. Soon we were flying like a kite across snow-set mountains. Next we were skimming clouds through which mountains like lizards could be seen dominating the sand. When we reached the oil terminals it was like looking down on blotches of power. I changed planes. I was restless to get home. This I did hours later. Yes, I was back. The artist and the children were away. But I was back in the flat with the large red sofa. Later, as my amazement settled, I checked the artist's unopened emails - she had asked me to do this when I phoned from the airport. Remarkably, she had one from the gallery who had come to see her work. They were desperate to get in touch.