Exploring Conflict Through the Creative Genre

In a sea of white faces his middle eastern features stick out like a sore thumb. Amongst the suit clad caucassion men, he wore casual, loose fitting clothes. Sitting on the bus he waits for his stop to come. One by one the suit clad men leave for their large monstrous office buildings. But for this middle eastern man he arrives at a humble little store, along the shop grounds lay majestic and beautiful rugs of all sizes. Each one telling a more and more vivid tale of his past experiences, each rug a reflection of himself. 
Like every other day he sits at his store alone, waiting for the next customer. However he is not truly alone as he looks over at his many rugs and peers into his past. Reminiscing about all those he loved deeply and the long journey he has taken. He scans his shop and admires each rug he has made, each with meticulous care. 
As the touches the spine of the rug he can smell the afghan air and feel it brush past gently across his face. On another rug he can picture his kind brother Grorg Ali guiding him into manhood when he was a child. Although happy memories, he had also had intertwined his rugs with sad memories for, passionate feelings that fuelled his soul with the motivation to create something beautiful. 
This one rug was different however, its colours red, charcoal, and onyx. Reflecting the sorrow he felt in his heart of that night. When all he could do was hide, the fear struck him like a killing blow. He could not move, he could not persevere through the screams either. The screams of his people. He could not help, nor could he have changed any thing that day. But this memory burdens him, with sadness and suffering. Yet he continues to live with it and accept it. 
That memory from long ago, almost twenty years from now. Out of a nightmare one night it came to him. That he had to remember all those lost that night. He no longer held grudges or hatred but of sentiment for the mazan people. 
Like any other rug it is displayed with care and...