A War Story

We were at war and had been captured. Our captors held us in a large room made of heavy wood. It was the largest room in an ancient building that belonged to a powerful family now long gone.

We were tense, both guards and prisoners, but eventually we began to learn to others' language, share cigarettes, drink, food, stories. The room was the world. We were haggard and bearded.

At one point, someone said what we all were thinking: “I say we stop fighting this war.” A moment of silence passed before we all cheered. Captors dropped weapons. Prisoners embraced guards.

We began to live humble but rewarding lives. We worked a small piece of land, had families, raised crops, animals, made art, lived and argued, made up, took responsibility when it seemed right to do so. We cared about the quality and mindfulness of our work. We knew this life we held was fragile and we were careful not to tear at the web that sustains all of us.

Now I know this land is precious. Each day is a gift. We wear colors – flannel shirts, soft cotton – fabric faded and thin around the elbows. We are weathered, strong, lean, healthy.

One day two dark figures emerge and wrestle on a ridge before descending to our isolated home. They cross the boundary, one pursuing the other. The one scrambles desperately for his life. The other pursues with equal vigor, catches him, restrains him from behind, and shoots him in the throat. The angle the bullet takes would end up in the shooter’s chest if the bullet went the other way. The captive dies. The executioner walks over to us, looking tortured by his actions.

We see in him the man we would have become if we had not decided to leave war behind. We have something he does not, but yearns for. We are poor, but full of an inner light. The angel of death has not stolen the soul we keep by doing least harm.

The captor sees this in us, makes a face to say, “But what can I do?” and walks away, back to where he came from, over the hill, back to the war. His story haunts him, sends him into a flight without rest. We all feel sad but grateful to have had a life as we begin to bury the dead man, who is haggard, bearded, dressed in black.