I don’t know why I couldn’t shoot. All I know is that I was thinking I can’t do it.
With my friend, Dopa, lying dead on the ground, I knew I had every reason to pull the trigger on his killer. I had my rifle trained on him, sights lined up right at his face. I knew any shot dealt on any part of his fragile body would be a killing blow. I knew the people who raised him to be like this were to blame for this kid’s death, not me. So why can’t I take the shot?
Then I remember the reason why I fought in this conflict of chaos and loss. Why I wear the clothes of a soldier, why I spoke the languages of war, why I treat the tools of war as a child would his toys; to bring peace to humans.
I believed humans have been at war with each other for so long, that we don’t know any other way. I thought I could be part of bringing that other way to the world, to heal the great divide between ourselves and urge a wave of change through the world. I believed that I could hopefully bring about the push we need to make a true difference in the world. I wanted humanity to no longer rely on peace talks, on treaties with lies written with the blood of many, but instead, take action and move with a purpose. I wanted to give my girls someplace to live without having to worry about dying before time takes them away.
Maybe that is why I can’t take the shot. Maybe it’s the realization that my dreams and ambitions were not only worthless, but they perpetuated the world’s cycle of conflict further by simply participating in it. Maybe it is the hopelessness of it all that made me not want to defend my life or my country or my faith anymore. Maybe that is why I slipped my finger away from the trigger and didn’t want to kill anymore. The only reason I could think of to replace my finger back on the gun was the thought of my wife and daughter lying dead, both ceasing to live before they got to live their lives.
I guess the kid, with those wide scared eyes, saw it, and took the shot to my chest. It took me a moment to register the fact that I had been shot. Maybe it was the fact I couldn’t taste anything besides the blood rushing up my throat that gave it away. Or the fact that I couldn’t feel anything but the difficulty to breathe and the warm wetness on my hands. All I know is that I am collapsing to the ground, my knees digging into the grains of sand, my hands reaching away from my rifle at my side, and my vision blurring and growing dark. The memory of the scared look on the kid’s face, the sight of Dopa lying dead on the spot, is the last thing I hold to myself as my cheek and hair sink into the sand.
I am wondering how rough it should have been for the millions before me and I pity those in line after me as I try to catch my final gasps of air.