C J Anderson Wu
In the early light of dawn, as the sun slowly ascended the horizon, the strip of land awoke with a subdued stir. Vendors, like shadows emerging from the gloom, unveiled their stalls. Their voices mingled in a sombre cadence with the distant, melancholic melodies from an old radio, echoing with the weight of forgotten times.
Market streets came alive with the muted colours of fresh produce and handmade wares, pulsing with restrained energy. Children of fleeting spirits darted through the narrow alleys, their laughter a fragile note that barely rose above the oppressive silence of the stone walls. Their parents moved with a resigned mentality, engaging in the mechanical dance of daily life.
Shops opened their doors, offering a brief respite from the harsh realities outside. The scent of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee mingled with the quiet air. Shopkeepers exchanged greetings and stories with their neighbours, wishing each other a peaceful day; just one more day of peace.
The city is timeless, past and present coexist in a perpetual negotiation. The essence of life throbbed with a sombre vibrancy, a testament to the enduring resilience of its people and the scarred beauty of the place.
Dirt roads defaced by the passage of countless damages bustled with an array of cars, each bearing the marks of its own struggles. In the outskirts, fields of dates, tomatoes and lemons, or thymes, sages and oregano were tended by the hands of farmers who spoke to the earth with the desperation of those clinging to their humble hope of harvest.
But after the muffled noise of aircraft engines was heard, the place was changed by deafening explosions. All the hopeful scenes were replaced by falling pieces of concrete debris, flying glass shards, and scattered metal fragments. Children’s screams and cries were oddly accompanied by the hisses and crackles of the broken radio, with a melody occasionally coming back to life.
*
Your patriotism clashes our nationalism, or vice versa, but which side was righteous did not matter now. The decades of conflicts, the first war to these children. With the backdrop of flames and smoke, red flowers of their blood spread over our faces, shoulders and chest, like a rain of petals.
No revenge is cruel enough for our agonies; no forgiveness is sacred enough for our faith.
We are the twain narrated in the textbooks of geography and history, but we embrace each other with blades. We demand punishment from heaven for one another, praying to the same god to condemn each other. We are the antithesis of tolerance, setting examples of hatred.
As a twain, we cannot turn the page of our violent past and move forward. Bound together, when one descends into the abyss of retaliation, the other remains ensnared.
And so today, my despised enemy and my awed neighbour, I include you in my prayers. May God bless your souls. Whether saviours through murder or murdered saviours, may your families and future generations be graced with fearlessness. In our time, the truest courage is simply to exist; the highest honour, a life lived without fear. No heroism surpasses the quiet act of living, raising our children in peace, in a life free from threat.
May flowers break the earth from the land where the red petals are buried.
