The War

For the men, women and, in far too many cases, children, all fighting for what they believe in. Or what they are told to believe in.

On a deserted street corner, there is a man dressed in old battle dress uniform, torn and frayed from years of destitution and degradation. He owns but a large rucksack and its meagre contents; a heavily chewed pencil, a steel mug stained by frequent use, another set of equally ragged clothes, and a photo of his mother. His straw coloured hair is matted by dirt, sweat, spit and blood; not all his own, but now part of the identity attached to him and thousands like him. Once a soldier of a different war, he stands small in a world not his own.

A short walk away, the man’s desperate calls for help are drowned by voices so booming and vehement they seem to blend into a crescendo. Thousands gather with picket signs and posters, demanding an end to the war that produced so many victims, it is a wonder that these afflicted and forgotten heroes cannot be heard amongst their fierce defenders. People protest, march, roar but their labours bare little fruit; the war rages on.

In the cold, dark depths of the prison cell almost half way around the globe, innocent civilians of the war-stricken land wait silently amidst clouds of fear and dread; will the hungry eat tonight, will the thirsty drink, will the tired sleep, will the ill be tended to? Deep down, they know the answers, but their spirit hangs on by a thread, regrettably reflecting their chances of survival.

On a dusty trail, a group of men in modern military clothing, carrying bags containing their government and military issue items of war, engage in conversation in a manner so casual, one would wonder if they were bothered in the slightest at the destruction they witness. But how can a man support the weight of his country, the love he has for the family he may never see again, the heart ache and sorrow for his fallen comrades, the bittersweet regret for his fallen adversary, without maintaining some barrier to protect his mind from caving in?

Back to the quiet, suburban safety of the first world, people sit in their living rooms, eyes locked onto their television. The familiar jingle of the evening news breaks the tense silence, before the anchors, not only of the news but of the public who hang onto their every word, offer them no reprieve from the fear that has plagued their hearts from the moment their loved ones departed to serve their country, their people, their family. For one woman, sitting next to the phone, telling her young child that everything will be okay as it begins to ring, her world is about to collapse.

“Mrs Doe? I regret to inform you…” The general’s voice joins the chatter in the room as more and more phone calls are made, all exactly the same. The men and women, in their positions of safety at the office, offer the same condolences and words of comfort, and listen in return to the same shocked silence on the other end of their line.

In a hospital, close to one of the battlegrounds, a group of doctors and nurses tend to the wounded. Their scars will remain, forever reminders of what they fought for, what they fought against. What some of their comrades are still fighting, what some will never fight again. Some men and women lie without limbs, without organs, yet they live. People might call them lucky now, but when these people sit at home, wherever that maybe, in the coming years, will they feel quite as fortunate?

Somewhere, a young person takes the biggest step of their life. They join the army, and, along with thousands of others, propagate the message of hope, of glory, of patriotism. The person is lined uniformly behind the others, and into them is bred the message that keeps them going. It is the fuel that drives them towards the light at the end of the tunnel. It gives them hope that everything will work out.

The political establishments all over the world communicate with concern and urgency, with anger and stubbornness, with fear and regret. World leaders debate and argue, trying to find solutions that please their subordinates, their peers, their bosses and their people. But, despite their apparent best efforts, they come to no avail, and the savage slaughter that plagues the world continues.

Soon, as the war grows and grows, the messages of hope for a better future fade into images of an unavoidable and inevitable dystopia. Cries for a saviour, in any shape or form, go unheard. No messiah stands above the rest; they all float in an endless chasm of destruction. The leaders find themselves as helpless as the rest as the world plummets into a dark abyss.

The war eventually ends, as colliding forces finally understand that their efforts are best directed towards the reestablishment of their own broken homes, rather than the continued destruction of others’. People all around the globe mourn for their lost, pray for the losing, but no one thanks the winners; they have lost as much as the losers.

Humanity breeds within every living soul, and the homeless, the prisoners, the protesters, the soldiers, the families, the public servants, the world leaders collectively grip upon the world they love and pull it out of the jaws of the dark abyss they were headed. They pour themselves into the world, into each other, and they rebuild an empire. But this is just the completion of a cycle; the world continues to turn, and the darkness once again begins to grow.