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ILLS OF WAR

 


The radios sang it like a song; peace talks had failed. Dad said war was coming, mom said we were leaving.
They came in droves—the recruiters. They needed more men to fight the war they had started. I was barely a young boy so I wasn't considered.
Dad called a meeting. He had been picked to represent our family.

I remember seeing the postman come in looking very ragged. The letter in his hand was more ragged than he was, it had specs of blood at the base of it. Mom screamed when she saw the heading of the letter, "DEATH NOTIFICATION", written in capital letters.
I was fourteen so I couldn't understand why she screamed. The postman looking very unconcerned about her feelings said "The war dey very difficult for the front, we need more men."

Mom said no, but her opinion didn't count, because I was whisked and thrown into the back of a truck. There were twenty-five of us, the oldest 18 and the youngest 12. We were sent to a camp and put through some military drills. In a week, we were supposedly battle ready and we were sent to Burma.

I was fifteen when I had my first kill. It felt bad at first but with time, my innocence was taken from me. I killed men, women, and children, taking so much pleasure from it. I was trapped in my mind. A mind corrupted by the ills of war.
We were made children soldiers, fighting for a country that failed us.

This happened twenty-five years ago. My mom is probably dead by now. My dad died in battle and was forgotten. Stories of the fourteen-year-old boy taken from his mom's arms by soldiers were supposedly told as a myth to the younger generation.

I look at my kids hoping war doesn't come again so they do not experience the horrors that come with it. Indeed life has no duplicate.

But no, the radios sing it like a song, peace talks have failed again.

WAR IS COMING!

By: Denilson C. 


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