By Sarah Daniel
Chaos resounded. Cheers, cries, triumph, sorrow—a cacophony seemed to bleed even though I shut my ears. Horns and trumpets of victory blared. People whooped in joy, some chanting slogans that had become so popular, and a few dancing with merry steps. Confetti flew in the air like rain, and I could do nothing but watch. Watch as this merry and joyous occasion surrounded me. I watched as children ran around with glee on their faces, their fears long forgotten. I watched as women held tightly to their lovers who had returned home, clinging to them as they found hope again.
Rage filled me, but it was soon followed by guilt. I should be merry; I should be celebrating, and yet all that filled me was betrayal and grief. I wanted to rip the hell-forsaken banners that portrayed elated faces of men who sought their solace in power—men who valued no lives other than their own. I imagined pushing away the carts filled with flowers and incense, toppling them to spill their contents onto the streets filled with light footsteps and dancing, and setting it all on fire.
What of those who were killed? What of those who were taken as prisoners and had yet to return home? What of the hundred women left widowed and the countless children now orphaned? What of the old lady who caressed the face of her son on that fading picture in hopes that he would return? What of those who had nothing to return to but a cold, empty home? What of those people groaning in pain and sorrow? What good did these millions of colorful bits of shiny paper do for these innocent souls other than fill them with despair? What was I to do now that the only person who had molded me into the woman I am was killed by another as innocent as him?
A loud sound startled me from my thoughts, and my eyes followed the gaze of the crowd into the sky. Fireworks. I stared at them, watching in awe. Cheers erupted around me, drawing me back to my senses. I looked around and saw the people chanting the name of our leader, the one who devised a plan so brilliant that we won the war. A brilliant man who did nothing to care for the men who lost their lives for this cursed country, nothing for their families. A brilliant man who instigated the war with his words and sent innocent souls to spill their blood in his place. A coward.
I put my thoughts away as I was dragged into a dance of celebration, putting on a wretched smile as I swayed my hips and clapped loudly with a group of familiar faces, dancing. Familiar faces that whispered hate not two days ago. Faces that hid their sorrows as well as I did, hoping this meaningless dance would put us out of our grief, even for a moment—to think of anything but our loved ones who died in the war.
By Sarah Daniel
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