Two paragraphs from my short story

[Bassim]

These two paragraphs are from my short story which I am still writing. I feel that some sentences do not sound natural, and I would appreciate if someone corrected my mistakes and made my text sound natural.
In these two paragraphs the narrator describes the day when the Croatian Army started their offensive, called Operation Storm in 1995, when hundreds of thousands Serbs ran away to Bosnia and Serbia. He and his family are also preparing to flee.

I went back into my room and looked around, not knowing what to take with me. My mind was still dazed, and I could not think properly. I did not want to believe what was happening to me was true. I opened the wardrobe, picked up some jackets and trousers and put them in my bag. We were in the middle of a hot summer, and I was uncertain what to take with me. I chose the thickest items, thinking that my refugee life would draw out for months, if not years and winter clothes would at least keep me warm. Finally, I put a photo album and my German and English dictionaries in the bag, gave the room one last glance and closed the door.

I joined my family and carried the items from our home which we would need the most onto the trailer attached to our tractor: mattresses, pillows, quilts, china, cutlery, pans and some food. The neighbours around us were panicking, their raised nervous voices grated on me. I believed some of them, especially women, were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They wailed and cursed the Croats and wished the same grim fate on them. Unlike them, neither I nor any other member of my family was agitated. We must have inherited our composure from our parents who seldom lost their temper. I watched my eldest brother’s two daughters, Jelena and Ivana, as their carried their dolls and tossed them onto the trailer, their angelic faces beaming with smiles. A pang of sorrow hit me like a bullet. They were just five and six years old and they were going to spend the next weeks and months as refugees in some temporary refugee camp where their childhood would be turned upside down. This war was cruel towards adults, but it was most savage towards children, doomed to grow up in bloodshed and hatred.

 

[teechar]

These two paragraphs are from [STRIKE]my[/STRIKE] a short story which I am still writing. I feel that some sentences do not sound natural, and I would appreciate it if someone corrected my mistakes and made my text sound natural.

In these two paragraphs, the narrator describes the day when the Croatian Army started their offensive, called Operation Storm, in 1995, [STRIKE]when[/STRIKE] during which hundreds of thousands of Serbs ran away to Bosnia and Serbia. He and his family are also preparing to flee.

I went back into my room and looked around, not knowing what to take with me. My mind was still dazed, and I could not think properly. I did not want to believe what was happening to me. [STRIKE]was true.[/STRIKE] I opened the wardrobe, [STRIKE]picked up[/STRIKE] took some jackets and trousers and put them in my bag. We were in the middle of a hot summer, and I was uncertain which items I should [STRIKE]what to[/STRIKE] take. [STRIKE]with me.[/STRIKE] I chose the thickest ones, [STRIKE]items,[/STRIKE] thinking that my refugee life would draw out for months, if not years and winter clothes would at least keep me warm. Finally, I put a photo album and my German and English dictionaries in the bag, gave the room one last glance and closed the door.

I joined my family and carried the items [STRIKE]from our home which[/STRIKE] we would need the most onto the trailer attached to our tractor: mattresses, pillows, quilts, china, cutlery, pans and some food. The neighbours around us were panicking, their raised nervous voices grated on me. I believed some of them, especially the women, were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They wailed and cursed the Croats and wished the same grim fate on them. Unlike them, neither I nor any other member of my family was agitated. We must have inherited our composure from our parents who seldom lost their temper. I watched my eldest brother’s two daughters, Jelena and Ivana, as [STRIKE]their[/STRIKE] they carried their dolls and tossed them onto the trailer, their angelic faces beaming with smiles. A pang of sorrow hit me like a bullet. They were just five and six years old and they were going to spend the next weeks and months as refugees in some temporary refugee camp where their childhood would be turned upside down. This war was cruel towards adults, but it was most savage towards children, who were doomed to grow up [STRIKE]in[/STRIKE] with bloodshed and hatred.

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