A Letter from a Dead Soldier
A Letter from a Dead Soldier
To the men who will never know my name,
I hope this letter reaches you. It shouldn't be difficult. Unlike me, it doesn't have to cross a battlefield.
By the time you read these words, the war will probably have a different name. The maps will have changed colors, and reporters will call it a victory, a tragedy, or simply another inevitable chapter of history.
For me, it was just Tuesday.
I remember the speeches. You spoke of honor, of duty, and of freedom. The strange thing about freedom is that it always seemed to arrive only after someone else's son stopped breathing.
The morning I died was strangely beautiful. The sun rose without choosing a side. The birds ignored our flags. The wind carried no anthem. Nature had already signed a peace treaty with itself. Only humans refused.
I never hated the man on the other side. We had never met. We probably laughed at the same jokes, missed our families in the same way, and dreamed of the same quiet life. Yet someone convinced us that strangers were enemies long before they ever became acquaintances.
When the bullet found me, it never asked my nationality. It didn't salute my flag or care which anthem I knew by heart. Death, I've learned, is wonderfully impartial.
Soon you'll stand before cameras and call men like me heroes. You'll place medals on folded flags and promise that our sacrifice will never be forgotten. Then, almost quietly, you'll approve the budget for the next war.
Please don't misunderstand me. I am not angry. The dead don't have the luxury of anger. I'm simply curious.
How many more victories will it take before humanity finally defeats itself?
Tell the children not to memorize the dates of battles. Teach them how wars begin. Dates remember when people died. Wisdom remembers why.
And when you visit my grave, don't bring flowers. Bring questions. Ask who profited. Ask who remained safe. Ask who kept their hands clean while ours were covered in blood.
If silence is the only answer...
Then you have already met the true architect of war.
Sincerely,
A Soldier
Who finally discovered that the enemy was never as far away as he had been told.
رسالة من جنديٍّ ميت
إلى الذين لن يعرفوا اسمي أبدًا...
حين خرجتُ إلى الحرب، قالوا إنني ذاهب لأصنع المجد. وحين سقطت، اكتشفت أن المجد لا يوقظ الموتى.
لم أكره الرجل الذي كان في الجهة الأخرى. لم نكن نعرف بعضنا، وربما كنا نحلم بالحياة نفسها. لكن أحدًا أقنعنا أن الغرباء أعداء قبل أن نلتقي.
الرصاصة التي قتلتني لم تسأل عن اسمي، ولا عن وطني، ولا عن العلم الذي أقسمت أن أموت تحته. الموت لا يعترف بالحدود.
غدًا ستصفونني بالبطل، وستضعون الزهور على قبري، ثم ستوقعون ميزانية الحرب التالية.
لا تحضروا إلى قبري بالورود...
أحضروا الأسئلة.
اسألوا من أشعل الحرب، ومن باع السلاح، ومن بقي آمنًا بينما كنا نحن نغطي الأرض بدمائنا.
فربما تكتشفون، كما اكتشفت أنا متأخرًا...
أن الحرب لا تبدأ عند الجندي الذي يضغط الزناد، بل عند الرجل الذي يقرر أن الزناد يجب أن يُضغط.
— جنديٌّ مات... قبل أن يعرف الحقيقة.
