by Szilvia Adler

Created on: July 02, 2010

 The military tanks on the nearby train are old-styled, well-preserved and green. This is all the scrutiny I have time for before they are rolled away. It reminds me of Kosovo, Vietnam and Iraq.

The picture I’m acquainted with is deplorable. It is the remnants of a house bombed in the war, with its walls torn down, and from the rubbles, three youthful and frightened faces looking out, wondering of what to do next and whether their lives will be spared or lost during the night.

As the deadness of silence sneaked around, the bodies belonging to the filthy little heads were still behind the barricade, frozen with time, emotion and actions, bewildered as what their next move should be.

The state of affairs was unfortunate, the three kids who had no right to be in that god-given bargain, hadn’t voted and hadn’t chosen the current political system, don’t know the word corruption but experience it firsthand.

They are deprived of childhood. Their aberrant fleshly wounds will soon be infected. They will not last a couple days longer. Who would take care of them anyway?

It is four o’clock in the morning. I’m sitting in my chair in one of my rooms, in my three bedroom house, sitting in an empty room, away from society, away from the noise and disturbances, in a house with the alarm on, drinking my freshly brewed coffee. What do I know about my life? Everything. What do I know about insecurity? Nothing. What do I know about death? Funeral arrangements. By the way, I have life insurance, so I’m covered.

I’ve attended the funeral of one of my friends’ father’s last weekend. He was in a cherry polished coffin, bathed and dressed in one of his best suits, face pointing toward heaven, where he had gone, purportedly. His face was emotionless and empty except for that tiny imitation of a grin around the mouth, mimicking – as my first impression prompted – mockery.

The derision on his face, leaving his years behind and the life he had lived, was exponentially raised by the fact of knowing what he has done and the insight behind the logic and the reason of politics, unlike kids fighting for their lives and against the enemy.

But who is the enemy? Why has he become the enemy? I need to shoot him, otherwise he will. Why? I don’t ask questions. I need to fight for my life. The reason is as simple as one, two, three. Nothing else matters. I’m fighting for my country, and I’m fighting for my life. These are the simple terms!

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