I looked around at the bones of what used to be our city, smiling sadly to myself at how it had died with us. What was the point of all this? Death? Was that why we were rebelling? Is all we want death? They said we were fighting for our rights. But what are our rights, really? We had healthcare and education. We had our lives. We had ourselves. Now, we have nothing. Now we’re living (or at least pretending to be alive) on the edge of death. It’s like sleeping on a cliff and hoping you won’t tumble in your sleep. I’ve never known what it was like to have no guarantee that I’ll wake up. But let me tell you, it isn’t great.
So why are we still doing this? Fighting, I mean. Why are we still fighting the system? Half of our families are dead, and the other half is either missing or internally shattered. So why?
I walk over to my mother, who’s preparing what seems to be today’s lunch: a few herbs combined with a squirrel my brother caught yesterday. She smiles at me, a meek smile being all that she can muster.
“What are we having today?” I ask, biting my lip.
“I’m trying something new.” She winks, “What should we call it?”
“ Squirrel and herb.”
“Squirrerb.” She says, and we laugh. Coming up with new names for made-up foods has been a kind of hobby for us since the beginning of the war.
“So what are you here for?” She continues, an eyebrow rising as if to help question me further.
“Well, I kind of have a question.” I respond, playing with the hem of my torn pajama shirt. She nods at me and I take it as a sign to continue.
“Why are we still fighting? What’s the point of this rebellion?” I ask, “Actually what’s the point of all rebellions? They just end in death and blood.”
“Honey, not all rebellions are pointless. In fact, none of them are. You just can’t see it yet.” I see a shadow of a smile on her lips as she continues, “The dawn of a new day comes to be when the sun decides to rebel against the darkness. She only rests when her needs and the needs and wants of those she cares for have been appeased. And to think,” She pauses, “that without her little rebellion the entirety of our world would cease to exist is the most paradoxically beautiful phenomenon that I have lived to see.”
“And are we going to do the same thing as her? The sun, I mean?”
“Yes dear, hopefully we will.”
“So rebellion isn’t always bad?” I ask, tilting my head in a confused manner.
She laughs and continues, “In reality, rebellion, the poor creature that people have come to think of as a beast is in fact our savior.”
“Mum, I didn’t think we’d get to this point, the human race, I mean. We’ve arrived at a point where we need to fight against the face of reality and end up merely scrounging for an ounce of justice and a glimpse of mercy. That disgusts me.”
“Yes, Sara. I hate it as well. But the only thing, in my humble opinion, that is worse than that, is hiding away from the terrible truth, and lurking in the darkness that, in itself, is a lie, for fear of running out.”
“But what about the people dying? Did Khaled tell you about how it’s like a painting from up there?”
“No, what’d he say?” She questioned, her eyebrow once again rising.
“The Air Force, mum. The land is like a coloring book to them. They paint from up there. When they want red, they drop blood-spilling bombs. When they want orange, they drop fire. When they want green, they release gas. We’re nothing but crayons to help with their big picture, mum. We’re nothing.” I say, choking back a sob.
