As I pray quietly by the mounds of dirt, an inadequate memorial to the villagers’ stolen lives, I silently hope that one day the Revolutionaries will make a difference. These men and women had been slaughtered liked animals and left to rot in the sun. The loyalist flag, now flying loosely in the breeze, had been placed with a sense of triumph over the dead bodies. This act of inhumanity lit a fire of rage inside me. Was this their victory another death, another life stolen? Do they not see that, just like the other forty two wars, this one is just as unwinnable? History has repeated itself enough why won’t we learn. As I hear the slight murmur from the girl sleeping in the hut, a smirk crosses my face; the bastards hadn’t got them all. I knew that if I was to see the men who had pulled the trigger so ruthlessly on this defenceless village, I would do the same to them. Something new had been opened inside me; an intense hatred like no other for the loyalists. The baby in my arms shifts slightly, his serene face softening my heart. I bring him closer to my chest and rock him lightly. My mind drifts back to my own village, what has happened to it? How is my family? Is my sister just like the girl inside, changed forever? Would my village one day be recaptured by the jungle just like this one would soon be?
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