My War

People assume I’m patriotic.

As if, whilst all the killing was going on, I was glued to my television screen with my fingers crossed. That my house was decorated with the correct memorabilia. Yes, that’s right, I had a side. My side was the side I was born in. The side where, if successful, I am not taken prisoner.

There is no humanity in war. It is a linguistic impossibility. An impractical bureaucracy. One cannot truly, care for all humans whilst they fight a war. Yes, I know my team seems to be doing a lot of evil. We don’t see a lot of it for what it is worth. We watch the undesirables be taken way, and, yes, we flinch when we see the smoke in the air. But, we are detached. Just like your soldiers are detached. Don’t let your men find out that we also like fishing, have children, and enjoy a drink. But when the time comes, and it seems closer and closer each day, people will not see our similarities.

There won’t be a welcoming party, and my door will not be open. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Our valuables will be stolen. My grandfather spoke of this the first time around.

“Bury your belongings; keep only the essentials!” he would say. His brain was barely working by this point, and we all thought he was going mad. Now I know. Our jewellery is buried beneath our shed.

There is a dark humour to it all. That the punishment for invasion is an invasion. I mean, come on.

Now they create the smoke. They burn down our land. Piercing the smoke piercing our eyes. Bursting through the town square and watching us all retreat. Under the tables, in the attic. “Im just a…” rings around the town. Doesn’t matter what we do; it is what we are. Sounds familiar.

My children look to me for an explanation. Their eyes were drenched with incomprehension. I couldn’t explain it even if I wanted to. What good would it do? Son, our home is going to be taken from us. Son, your sister, is going to be raped. Son, we might be killed. This is karmic justice?

I wasn’t allowed to be a soldier, thankfully. My eyesight is too bad. Not that I fucking volunteered! But I am seen as a coward from both sides. It helps me prepare, I guess. My foggy vision stripped me of the power of differentiation. I get to universally fear uniforms, as we all should.

Here we go, then. I better salute my approaching captors.

It all makes sense.