One of the blackest days of Kabul

Yesterday was clearly a bad day. It was a black day for Kabul but it wasn’t THE blackest of Kabul days. There have been days where hundreds of Afghans have been killed in rocket attacks in Kabul alone.
Nevertheless, it was still a dark day. And it’s haunting.
Next door, in Peshawar 107 people killed in a bomb blast. It was in a shopping area where it’s mainly women and children. Most of the killed were women and children. I can only imagine the grief and pain their families are going through.
A few countries away, in Palestine. On the news, images of a father and his heartbroken 6 year old son in tears. The little boy’s toys buried under the rubble of their home. The father promising his son that they (the Israelis) will leave their country one day and they will have a home again. The anger and hurt in the boys eyes has the potential to channel him towards anti-Israeli sentiments.
It didn’t hit me until last night. Talking about it with my hubby just as I was about to fall asleep.
The images of the young boy kept flashing in my head. The tears in his eyes. I wish I could reach out to him.
I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of where we would run out to in case the attacks happened in our house and planning. Will we have time to put on the armoured vests? I came to a conclusion that we will sleep fully dressed (I would even sleep in the armoured vest) and have a grab bag ready. Do we hide or do we run?!