"J'ai appris avec émotion, l'attentat ignoble perpétré contre Darak et pour lequel plusieurs de ces inconnus sont morts.
Je condamne avec force cet acte odieux des adeptes de la violence et de la terreur. Je vous exprime à vous et au peuple Camerounais ma solidarité."
Ceci aurait suffit dans un tweet, mais qu'est-ce qui est plus important: la mort de ton enfant, ou celui du voisin?
Celui du voisin bien sûr!
#RIP brave soldiers, future generations shall appreciate your sacrifice.
When I think of the wars in Cameroon, my mind goes to Asa’s Fire on the Mountain: “Could it be love for your country, or for the gun you use in killing?” she sings.
I think she missed the “greed” question, that could desire to sacrifice human life to sustain the funding of the war, and generate income for some uncanny souls. Well finite are the resources, finite are the humans
Tossed around in the wagons, the tomatoes bounce on each other
Squashed one at a time on a path they didn’t decide
On a path they must follow like human life.
Then the owner calls to the controller
And the engineer, yet noone hears
And squash, splat, squash
Till all left
Nine burnt souls float over roasted mayhem where souls are tugging their way out of resilient bodies.
All they remember is a bright light; the deafening din rushed towards their maimed bodies like Sir Hewett, and you know what they say about not hearing the bang…
They will no longer bathe in the bitter burnt flesh fragrance heavy in the smoke blundering through the debris.
They will not agonise with the grunts and moans coming from where wood and flesh, metal and flesh, and earth and flesh dance the Black Swan with darker shades of hell and oozing red.
But, they will nevermore hum a lullaby to the drowsy eyes of toddler dreams, nor bless the lips of a lover with a touch of their lips.
Their seat shall slice onions into the hearts of those sharing meals at the dinner table, and the past tense will follow every mention of the scathing memories of how happy they made this one or that one.
The media will mention their names for all to hear….or maybe not. This didn’t happen in Paris; who cares if 2 prepubescent girls blow up a refugee camp in Kolofata?
There are guns shouting fear through your window shutters,
A bomb blast breaks your neighbour’s home and you’re running down the street.
The kids don’t get it. They don’t get it: why is there blood in the gutters?
Why are hands without bodies, heads with gaping mouths, missing severed feet?
The screaming gets louder, and it’s on your spouse’s and your shoulders
To save them from a threat, unarmed, untrained and the closest
You’d come to death were those Expendables movies in your hard disk folders.
The banks are shut, the bus system is shut, you never even had a Toyota starlet.
What would you do if it were you? If you’re playing metal gear solid in your own town?
Only this time, you have one life, no continue nor save, and to your untrained self are tagged
More untrained and even naive souls counting on you’re strength in this showdown.
What would you do if the only option was either death by exhaustion or having your head bagged?
Doh Tita in brown shoes, brown trousers, beige shirt,
The only gentleman shining integrity five miles around.
Doh Tita, everybody knew him, even in the town’s outskirts.
Memory of his war-wrought limping gait,
While he bragged of his world war prowess,
Telling of shrapnel, burnt flannel and some fallen mate.
And as he talked, a tear would have been born
On his eyelid; so much sadness plagued his heart!
But he energetically went on, disclosing the cold tales of that morn.
Like a forgotten folder, he sits and ruminates
About unrewarded sacrifice, the lethal hail all about,
At school with his friends, years of training a pellet deflates!
Wolves kill dogs, must man kill man?
Doh Tita would tell of the glassy looks of the stiff
And we’d listen without lassitude to the Shaman.
I’m drifting away, a ghost fleeing its wrecked home.
I’m drifting away, with ghosts fleeing their wrecked homes.
We saw the mother and daughter walk casually past our houses,
Veiled, usual, so we thought nothing of them.
We’d heard of how explosions rocked other cities without announcing,
But it’s human to err, and think it’ll only impact “them”
So as fate had it they lit up their ounces and the blast
Took us all unaware to Peter’s gate, as our bodies breathed their last.
Hey! Let’s go out there on a killing spree,
And loot, kidnap and fill our kitchen shelves
With bills from nations here and across the sea,
And diamonds, then weapons to protect ourselves.
Let’s find a bush wherefrom we’ll buzz then sting
And create routes through nobody could think
And in stealthy style steal their everything
Then plant scare as blood and powder stink.
Let’s mourn our dead as war counts their heads,
And hunt more silly heads to fill their beds
But how to go by this, despite the dread?
We must find a solution to keep earning this juicy bread.
Aha! Jihad’s incentive enough for youth to care:
Doing Allah’s work or risk His wrath for million years,
But to do His work means sweet blessings here
And paradise awaits after they’ve pulled your bier.
So say it loud, say it to the young and old:
“Fight for Allah as sacrifice or till you’re cold!”
But show them not our harems and stash of gold
For doubt could reduce the men in our hold.
Once I held a gun in the bush.
That Ak47 was nearly my size but I lifted it.
I was fierce and fearless to my foes,
Taking their lives before they could reach for mine.
Yes, once I killed in the bush;
The men who protected their villages,
The women who protected their children,
The children who would avenge their orphan state.
At that time I was a hero in the army
So decorated by war wounds and scars
That pain became the objective of my existence
And transmitting it my only medicine.
Now I’m 16 years old and peace has killed the need for guns.
My grades and skill set mean nothing.
All left is the emptiness in the memories of maimed men,
Mothers, and children.What to do now?
AH…Once I was told taking lives was the life I needed,
But now I know there was much more to hope for.
Much more to aim AT than innocent targets in the bush
I wave my blistered hand before my bleeding face,
Waving gunpowder smoke and blood fumes in the mist
To see the survivors, to see hope.
But all I see is crushed bones and leaking skulls;
All around the steaming tarmac lie lifeless lads,
Lost lives fill the air with more choking tears.
But we can’t cry now!
“Run! Run! Before they cast another bomb on us!”
I’m on my feet, staggering forward like an alcohol keg,
Surprised to be running alone to the porous camp shelter;
Oblivious to pain, oblivious to care, I stagger on.
Hoping to get my weapon and answer their fire.
It is then it dawns like a wooden blow on me:
I’m no soldier; they aren’t either!
Infant body parts entangled with women and men’s blood
Litter the town square, and I’m staring at the military shelter:
A wooden icecream stand with holes on the whole frame,
And blood , and burnt flesh reeking in the foetid smoke;
And… I break into tears.
They said they loved me.
Then, the metal beasts came, soaring over me
Heaping dust and blood on our city streets,
As their lethal load hit like rain sheets.
I watched their love puncture the city walls
And sever the sinews off the boy and his ball
Leaving the mother crying for her son, then his dad
Till her tears meant nothing in the wailing myriad.
I saw the hate build with each blood drop
Drawn from the soldiers and innocent. Drop
For drop, survivors intend revenge upon this love shown:
This false love which spurs only hate till we’re all gone.
This is a view from the other side of fanatism. Taking more weapons to the Middle East will only push more bereaved honest Muslims in despair to take up arms to avenge their lost ones: in that state where all is lost, the fanatics find fodder for their ideas, and turn these honest citizens into murderous terrorists. There has to be another way. A politician suggested diplomacy and negotiations. May another way be found, for bloodshed will only lead to more bloodshed. May the souls lost in the wars on both sides R.I.P.