Casualties Of War

It had been 10 years since the civil war had ended. 10 years since the nation and its people had been completely torn apart. While the rest of the world had stood by and watched or supplied weapons and support to the armies and the militias, the Government forces and the rebels had both committed atrocities so vast and heinous that they beggared the imagination. Entire villages had been exterminated and burned to the ground. Children who had survived the massacres had been taken as slaves and used as child soldiers, and the rape of women and children of all ages had been a recognised form of terror. Even after 10 years, the scars were still fresh. The mass graves were still being unearthed and the levelled towns rebuilt, while some villages which had been completely destroyed were left untouched as memorials of that war. The road signs that had once directed people to those villages now marked the boundary between the past and the present; between the living and the dead. Because although the names of those villages were etched into the collective memory of the entire nation, no one ever mentioned them or even used the roads that now lead to those ruins and mass graves. Indeed, having travelled to the country to write an article commemorating the 10th anniversary of the peace treaty which had finally ended the war, one journalist made an old woman burst into tears when he asked her the way to a village which had been destroyed. Lorna! She wept bitterly again and again as she rocked back and forth, frantically clutching at the locket around her neck. And needless to say, the poor journalist was absolutely stricken with guilt. So when the old womans daughter came to try and comfort her a little, her son-in-law took the nave visitor to one side and quietly made him an offer. Ill take you as far as the road sign. He whispered, making certain that no one could hear him. Ill even wait for you to return and drive you back here if you want, but only on the condition that you dont say anything to anyone. As far as the rest of this town is concerned, you dont exist. Clear? The journalist nodded but said nothing, because at this point, mere words seemed so inadequate.

From the ambivalent expression on the haunted mans face, the journalist was certain that hed been waiting for someone like him to arrive for the last 10 years. Someone who would see the ruins and tell the truth to the entire world. But on the other hand, he was also just as traumatised as his wifes mother. And leading the visitor to his car, the 20 minute

journey seemed to last for an eternity as he drove in sullen silence with his mind completely focused on the past. With every mile that went by, the man grew increasingly anxious as, without realising it, he eased his foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to slow down. From 50mph to 48 to 45 He was certainly in no hurry to get there. Although he did his best not to look at him directly, in the rear view mirror, the journalist could see the sheen of sweat that now covered the traumatised mans face. And as the road sign which now marked the boundary finally came into view, the car slowed to 20mph then 10 and finally stopped as the driver began shaking visibly and the last of the blood drained from his face. For a full minute before finally getting out of the car, the journalist continued to watch in silence as the man gazed up at the road sign and the tears streamed down his cheeks. As he began walking the rest of the way towards the ruins, the visitor knew for certain that he would never see the man again. Because although he had promised to wait for the journalist and to drive him back to town, he completely understood that being on this road was far too terrible for him to bear. And in the end, having packed plenty of water and sandwiches, he was prepared to walk back on his own. In the meantime though, when he finally reached the ruins, the journalist began to understand a tiny fraction of what the survivors now endured. Because the first thing he noticed when he reached the destroyed village was the set of gallows which still stood proudly in the main square, and the dozen nooses that had been used to execute everyone in the village, still hanging down from the sturdy wooden beam. Towards the end of the civil war as both sides began running low on ammunition, the execution squads had used hanging as an alternative when exterminating Enemy villages. And as he drew closer, he saw the clothed, decomposing skeletons which had dropped onto the wooden platform below. As a warning to others, the last twelve people that the soldiers executed in each village were always left hanging from the gallows while the rest were ploughed into the mass graves like trash bags into a land fill. After 10 years of decomposition and being pecked at by the crows, their skulls had finally come away from their spinal columns, causing them to crash down. And although he did his best to photograph one decomposing skeleton which, judging by its size, tattered clothes and the few strands of long hair which the birds hadnt taken for their nests, was that of a young girl, the journalist literally broke down and threw up. As much as they must have longed to bury these remains with dignity, no one in the town could go near the village without suffering 100 times what he was going through at that moment. On top of that, these remains were also vital evidence for the war crimes

tribunals which were still underway in The Hague. So under strict orders to leave everything untouched, although he knew that the UN teams would bury these remains as soon as theyd finished cataloguing and burying the remains in the major towns and citys, the journalist took little comfort in this fact he continued to weep and to shake. Of course, these twelve skeletons were not the only unburied remains. More than 50 other people had been locked in one of the buildings before it was burned to the ground. Scattered around the burnt out buildings were the skeletons of those who had been shot dead as they tried to escape. And next to one skeleton that was wearing a tattered dress lay the shattered skeleton of a baby who had been kicked and beaten to death. A mother had tried to save her baby, and this was the result. So as he walked away from the village, the journalist knew that he would never sleep well again. However, the entire point of the article which he was planning to write was to show the tiny seeds of hope that were struggling to blossom in the bloody aftermath of that war. So having walked to another town quite far away from the village, the journalist searched for the legendary Family Of Love. After all, for several years after the war had finally ended, this touching story had been a symbol of the whole nations continuing struggle to heal. Having watched all seven of their children being murdered at the hands of the Government forces, one couple had adopted a child soldier who had watched his entire family being massacred before being compelled to fight for the Government, giving him a loving home and putting aside the grief and the hate. But although the people in this town were nowhere near as traumatised and were able to speak to the journalist without breaking down completely, the moment that he mentioned The Family Of Love, a black cloud descended over the minds of anyone who heard the name. Here they are. Indicated the woman whod led him to the graveyard, pointing to the three gravestones that were positioned side by side and bowing her head as the memory of the tragedy now shattered what was left her heart. They all committed suicide about 3 years ago. If only wed seen it coming. In their desperate need for hope, everyone in the town and across the entire world had praised and exulted the Family Of Love, refusing to notice the black and terrible truth which had been there for anyone to see. After being adopted, the boy always had bruises. Late at night, people would hear him screaming, but assume that he was having nightmares about the war and everything that hed endured. When they spoke about their adopted son, the couple delighted in telling everyone how sorry he was for the crimes and atrocities which the Government forces had committed. How he hated himself for being a part of those war crimes and how he wished he had never

been born. As a matter of fact, his adoptive parents even forced him to beg forgiveness from everyone who had ever suffered at the hands of the Government troops. As the years began to pass, the boy suffered many Accidents, until finally, he took his own life. And shortly after the funeral, having grinned with satisfaction at the knowledge that he was burning in Hell where he belonged, the couple left a note telling everyone that they were finally joining their children. Torn between his pity and his burning hatred as the woman took a flower and laid it on the young boys grave, the journalist was far too overwhelmed by the truth of this atrocity to even try to speak. But after a minute, the woman gave a deep sigh and felt her soul ache as she finally concluded the story Adopting that boy was their revenge. The next day, the journalist left town without a word, feeling nothing but revulsion and self-hatred. How could he have ever admired those monsters? Having spread their moving tale of love and reconciliation across the world, how could his fellow journalists have failed to report the tragic and horrific reality? But as he thought this though, he despised himself even more as he remembered his editors unofficial credo, Never Let The Truth Get In The Way Of A Good Story. Opening his laptop and looking through he had written so far, the journalist knew that he would never be able to sell this to anyone, or even give it away. After all, there was no sensationalism, no villain to be despised, no Plucky Underdog and no heart-warming Human Interest Story. Although hed only been 15 when the war had still been raging, even back then, he had been appalled by the glaring lack of coverage in the mainstream media. And having originally become a journalist with the express intention of covering the ugly truth, only now did he finally realise just how much he had sold out. Over the course of the last decade, he had subtly trained himself not to write anything that wasnt going to sell; to never say anything that the people didnt want to hear. And as much as it now disgusted him, his job still depended on him writing what the people wanted to read. So having finally reached the third town on his journey, the journalist went in search of The Mother Of Hope. Her story was horrific and deeply tragic to say the least. But then again, almost no one in this traumatised country had survived the civil war unscathed. Having once been very beautiful, the rebel soldiers whod massacred her whole family had kept her alive and taken turns raping her, all day, every day.

Every time that shed resisted, she was brutally beaten until her face was unrecognisable. And one night while her latest rapist was laid sleeping beside her, she took the key from his belt and unlocked the cuffs which chained her to the radiator before slitting his throat with his own bayonet. She killed three other soldiers who had raped her that night, stabbing one of them repeatedly before disappearing into the darkness and being found the next day on the roadside, covered in blood. And many years later, her greatest regret was that she hadnt been able to kill more of those monsters. However, after the war had finally ended, the woman had apparently transmuted her hatred into love, opening an orphanage for more than a dozen abandoned children whod been born during the war after their mothers had been raped by rebel soldiers Shed received donations from all over the world. The headlines called her The Mother Of Hope. But now, having planned to write a story about how the children born as the result of war crimes were growing into the future hope of their country, when the journalist found the orphanage, it had been burned to the ground. And when he finally found The Mother Of Hope, the woman was living alone a few miles away, filled with hatred, grief and pain. Even after 13 years, although her body was still beautiful, the beatings that shed received from the soldiers who raped her had left her face shattered and deformed. And of top of that, her arms and hands had been badly burned in the orphanage fire. The story around the town was that years after she had murdered their comrades and the war had finally ended, two former rebel soldiers had come seeking revenge on behalf of the rapists who shed butchered. Taking a can of gasoline, they had burned the orphanage to the ground. And while the fire was raging, The Mother Of Hope had been terribly burned while trying to rescue the children from the fire. As he sat interviewing the woman however, the journalist noticed the unmistakable look of guilt in her eyes as she fidgeted and touched her beaten face. For more than an hour, she relived the nightmare of being raped over and over by the same monsters who had murdered her entire family in front of her eyes. As well as the satisfactiob she had taken in butchering 4 of them like pigs, and the guilt and shame that she still felt for not killing more of them. I wish Id been murdered with my family! She wept as she rocked back and forth and the journalist didnt know what to say. I wish that theyd killed me that night!

Deep down in her subconscious, some part of the woman had wanted the soldiers to kill her. So as well as taking revenge by murdering four of the soldiers, she had actually hoped that their comrades would catch her in the act and shoot her where she stood. I wanted to cut my own throat! She shouted as she trembled with guilt and grief. I wanted to keep on killing them until they killed me, but Im such a weak coward! Why am I so weak? Feeling his heart break in two, the journalist did his best to tell her that she had survived to found the orphanage. That she had shown great strength in trying to help those abandoned children, but she simply wouldnt listen. I Killed Them! She wailed as she broke down completely. I Killed Them All! Again, the journalist tried to comfort her. No one can blame you for killing those soldiers, not after everything they did to you However, she wasnt talking about the soldiers anymore. During the three years between the night shed escaped and the end of the civil war, the woman had blamed herself for every rape committed by the soldiers who shed failed to kill. She felt the pain and anguish of every woman who gave birth to the children of those monsters. And having failed to protect them by killing their rapists, she believed that at the very least, she could give them some satisfaction by killing the products of their rape. I Started The Fire! She confessed as the tears continued to flow. I wanted to end their mothers suffering and earn forgiveness from God! I wanted to die in that fire as well! But Im such a coward! I Tried To Walk Back Into The Burning Building, But I Could Only Burn My Arms! Please God! Please Forgive Me & Let Me Die!!! Too shocked and traumatised to speak, the journalist left without a word. The next day he resigned from the news agency, and he wrote a story telling the whole truth. The End