Tamerlane was seven years old when the war with Georgia began. Like all boys his age, he dreamed of going to Brazil to take pictures with famous football players. Tamerlane wanted to live in a hot country for several years, and then on his way back make the hajj to Mecca. The elder sister begged him to take her with him, but he was adamant. “You see, this is a very serious trip. And you will be superfluous there,” Tamerlan answered seriously, almost like an adult. Until he was seven years old, he painted all the wallpaper in the rooms. He painted the war. Tanks, soldiers in helmets, weapons, explosions, blood and cartridges. “Let him just draw. But he always voices every explosion,” my mother was indignant. When the war began, Tamerlane ran out of paint.