Victims Of A Bomb Raid

Based on the Anti-Cimex song with the same name. It reflects my opinion on war; there's no "heroic" side, only innocent victims caught up in the endless cycle of slaughter.

I couldn't even remember the last time we were at peace. I remember the sound of gunfire, ever since I crawled out of my mother's womb. When my father walked me to school, when I played soccer with my friends, when I tried to read in the darkness of the night. I can remember being at war as far as I can remember being alive.

It's amazing how human beings can adapt to anything, even with all the machine gun fire and tanks and shells all around the area, people are going on their everyday business as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

Grandmothers chatting amiably on their front doors, women haggling for vegetables at the market, children playing hopscotch by the roadside, men smoking cigarettes in their usual dour and depressed way, occasionally pausing when a sound becomes too loud, before returning back to their usual routine.

As I patrol the streets, I became aware of a few rockets passing through and fro between both sides, shaking the ground and creating an explosive sound when it reaches its intended target.

I hesitated for a moment, before remembering my orders. Even as I trudged forward, the soles of my boots crunching through the debris on the streets, I had a nagging feeling of terror and apprehension gripping me as I moved forward.

Why do we have to fight in the first place? For land? For religion? For ideology, whatever it even means today?

I wonder if the foot soldier on the opposing side thinks the same way as I am right now. Drafted after school, with no other option available around him, forced into a camp, trained to hate and kill his enemy at the first chance, and to die for the glory of your nation, a footnote in the endless number of casualties killed in this senseless slaughter.

If we're lucky, our leaders might present our parents with a useless trinket, say a few words how brave and courageous we were, and how much our death means to them, before going back to their offices and planning more endless slaughter.

We both get to patrol any given area, not knowing if the neighborhood we're patrolling right now will even be there tomorrow.

Not even knowing if the friendly old ladies running the small cafes will even be around tomorrow, pouring cups of tea, while the customers eat sorry-looking pieces of bread, dipped in anemic looking gravy for their tea, before returning to their ramshackle homes worrying if it would even be there for another day.

Not even knowing if the flowers growing in the flower pots will still be blooming tomorrow.

In this conflict, nothing is certain.

As I patrolled the streets, I saw a school just down the road.

It's strange how I've always had a soft spot for schools, it feels that among the rampant war, misery and propaganda, schools are the only places where joy and happiness are allowed to flourish, even as the state tries its best to corrupt their young, to teach them to hate, to become ruthless, all so that they can continute this endless, senseless war.

As I slowly made my way through the school, I heard a whooshing sound, and to my horror, I realized what it was.

It's an air raid, and they're dropping bombs on this area.

I hesitated for a moment, thinking about my own safety, before I rushed forward, calling out to the children.

"Get out of there! Get out of.." I shouted, before I heard the world crumbling around me, surrounding me with dust and debris, filling up my lungs, choking me into unconciousness as the world turned pitch black.

Soon, I saw light returning, and as I slowly got up, my worst fears are confirmed.

This area has been bombed, the school being a new addition to the testament of the endless, mindless slaughter.

I quickly ran forward to the school, with the sounds of panic and grief filling my ears.

I saw one woman, a teacher,frantically clawing her hands into the debris with tears running down her face while wailing;

"Why? Why? Why them? They've done nothing wrong!" over an over again.

I frantically scrambled up to her, put down my firearm, and lifted rock after rock, hoping to even find a single sign of life.

There was none.

No cries of pain, no coughs of agony, no moans of despair. Nothing.

As I dug out one child, her body bloody and limp, a scene of chaos and disorder emerged. Civilians running around, frantically requesting for any kind of medical assistance, more soldiers arriving at the scene, ambulances running to and fro with bodies, as we dug up the debris with our hands, we discovered more children, their innocent lives came to an abrupt end in this grotesque show of military might and strength.

Later, we uncovered all the bodies buried in the rubble, and the former school became a center of despair.

From despair, comes helplessness.

From helplessness, comes anger.

From anger, comes hate.

From hate, comes the desire to inflict harm.

From the desire, comes the will to do it.

I could see this happening in front of my very own eyes, as some shouted curses at the enemy, while some grew mad with grief over the loss of their beloved. They spoke of hatred towards the enemy, shouting how they shall avenge their loved ones.

The circle of hate, starting all over again.

I walked around the school grounds aimlessly until I reached the body of the first child I dug up.

I crouched next to her, and mumbled, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're the victim in our senseless war."

"We're the perpetrators, and you're the ones who paid for it," I sobbed.

I got up, wiped my eyes with my sleeve, looked above the wall, and the only thing I can think is,
"I hope their children are still well and alive."

Reviews

[Aeneas Barton]

Good story, although in parts of your story, the tenses don't agree, you go from past to present in one sentence. By the by, have you ever read Mark Twain's "The War Prayer" ?

[Hadri A Rahman]

Yeah, I'm still trying to kick that habit. Can you point out which sentences in particular where I made that mistake?

And I'm afraid I haven't read much of Mark Twain, I've only read his horror stories, but I'll check it out, thanks.

[Aeneas Barton]

You know I re-read this again, 'cause it got me thinking about the different tenses, the thing is, with commas the become separate clauses, so it could work; however the thing is you switch back and forth from present to past, 'it's an air raid' not it was an air raid is an example, but now that I re read this story I am thinking, separated by commas or paragraphs, perhaps what you are doing here is the equivalent of slowing time down like in movies, during times of high stress or action. Hm... to be honest, maybe I more experienced editor could give you a better review. I went through this story several more times, and..well...now I am rethinking what I said earlier...
By the by, did you ever read 'All Quiet on the Western Front' that'd be another one of my recommendations