I am not brave. I am just here. And I have a pen.
Tonight we are eating real rice. Someone found a sack in a collapsed warehouse. I am crying again. But this time it’s different.” “The war isn’t over. But the Blocs are retreating. I saw their columns pulling back this morning. Lin climbed a water tower and waved a red scarf. No one shot at her. a record of delia's war
I started this record to survive. Now I think I finish it to remember. Not just the horror—but the fact that a librarian and a fourteen-year-old girl with a spoon outlasted an army. I am not brave
Delia’s war is not glory. Delia’s war is carrying a child through a city that wants her dead.” “Lin is gone. Not dead—I don’t think. Taken. A Bloc patrol kicked in our hideout door at 4 AM. They wanted the radio. Lin threw it out the window before they could grab it. Smashed on the pavement. But they didn’t know that. Tonight we are eating real rice