No winners in war

And why I am feeling so unsettled

Photo by Jordy Meow on Unsplash

Hello and welcome to this week’s edition of Rosy’s Ramblings.

With everything that has been going on around the world recently, I don’t know about you, but I am feeling distinctly unsettled. Will the cost of living go up yet again? Will there ever be world peace? Sadly, I think we all know the answer to that last question, however much we want peace and harmony to reign supreme. I guess it’s human nature for people to argue, whether it be about religion or natural resources, land and boundaries or whatever, but I often wonder about the futility of war. There are no winners. Only losers. And the people who lose the most are those caught in the crossfire, sometimes literally, who just want to get on with their lives. It’s heartbreaking to watch some of the scenes brought to our screens from around the world.

I wrote this piece of flash fiction in 2022 after watching some harrowing scenes from Afghanistan, when the reporter was pleading for humanitarian aid.

Underneath it, I wrote:

My thoughts and prayers go out to the citizens of Ukraine and their wider families, wherever they are. It is an uncertain and frightening time and I wish them all a safe passage to a quieter place where they can live their lives in peace.

Three years on and still the fighting hasn’t stopped. Whatever the outcome of the talks to try and broker a deal, I hope with all my heart that peace can once again reign over the cities that have been ravaged by war, and more than anything, for the citizens of those once beautiful cities to feel safe and to be reunited with their loved ones.

A Once Beautiful City

Ugly carcasses of burnt out cars litter the streets of a once beautiful city. Soldiers close in, circling, like a pack of wolves. The arid desert air is thick with the stench of fear as their cold-blooded stealth floods the streets and alleyways, one thing on their minds. To flush out the enemy.

Mothers protect their children as best they can. Once happy, chanting in their kitchens, preparing the regional delicacy, Aushak, the time-consuming dish reserved for special occasions, they were once happy and safe in their homes. Memories of that lovingly prepared special family meal fade away; the aroma of mint and *gandana is gone. Replaced by black, acrid smoke, stinging their eyes and burning their throats as they struggle to breathe.

It is not their battle but it has become their fight. They are caught in the crossfire, sometimes played out by politicians, safe in swanky boardrooms, and other times by soldiers on the ground. Young children, wide-eyed with terror, clutch at their mother’s robes, desperate for peace and normality. Craving the warmth of their father’s embrace, wondering whether they will ever see him again.

Ahmad cowers in the corner of their ruined building with his mother and sister. He recalls how he and his brother, Ali, loved to watch Buzkashi tournaments, especially when their father was victorious. His thoughts are interrupted by an ear-splitting blast. By the time his brain had registered what was happening, it was too late.

The aroma of mint and *gandana drifts through the air on the other side of the city. The bodies of the mother and her two children lay on the dusty, scorched earth, laid out across the street from the ugly carcass of a burnt out car.

I wrote this after watching harrowing scenes from Afghanistan when the reporter was pleading for humanitarian aid. It got me thinking about the futility of war and how so many innocent people get caught up in the crossfire, through no fault of their own.

Each morning when I check the newsreels, I hope for peace. I hope that the citizens of those once beautiful cities can return to their homes and feel safe with their loved ones.

With heartfelt thanks for being here.

*Gandana is a variety of leek, native to Afghanistan, which is said to be a cross between chives and leeks but with a spicier taste.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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