I wrote the following story the other day after reading a post on anacoana's blog called How War Changes Children.

Child’s Play
The stars seemed alive on this still, fall evening. They seemed to sway to the music of some unheard, celestial rhythm as they stretched from one far-flung horizon to the other. He lay on his back in this open field, staring with wonder at the canopy of the cosmos that was displayed before him, and he felt a peace that he had not experienced in what seemed like years.
The sensation poured over his body like a warm syrup, and he welcomed it as he would welcome a delicate, cool breeze on a hot summer day. He willingly allowed the feeling to overtake his body, and slowly he felt himself drift away from the horror of the present to the much simpler, innocent time of his childhood…two years ago.
In simpler days, he often would lay on his back and stare in amazement at the unchanging yet ever-moving tapestry of stars and planets and wonder if somebody somewhere was staring back.
This field was full of rolling and fragrant greenery then for the goats and the sheep. There were no flashing skies. The only thunder there was came from the clouds. His mother and brothers were still alive.
He and his brothers would play here amidst the goats and sheep where the grasses swayed over their heads. He stretched his senses now and listened hard to hear the happy squeals of childhood. Today, they were but half-forgotten echoes. They were mere shadows that slid over and about the mounds of charred earth and deep craters that had replaced the lush vegetation of yesterday.
No grass here.
No children.
No playing.
Nothing but shock and awe.
The men came to his village one day. They came with their guns and their sullen faces. He was not afraid of them. He recognized some of them. Some of them used to live in his village. The men were looking for fighters. Fighters were needed to stand up against the infidels…to stop the shock and awe.
He was only ten, but the men said he could tote a rifle, fire a shoulder rocket.
They made him stand up in front of them for inspection. They complimented him on his size and his strength. They said that he would be an excellent candidate to fight for the glory of Allah against the infidels.
"I want to go with them, Mama."
"You are just a boy," his mother said with a dismissive wave of the hand.
"But the men said that I am strong."
"You are too young."
"But they need me. They need fighters against the enemies of Allah. The infidels are many, and they are powerful. I am going with the men."
His mother stopped her preparation of the morning meal and grabbed him firmly by the arm. "You are not going with them! You are going to school. You are just a boy!"
He was surprised by the strength of her grip on his arm. He looked up into her face as saw determination. He also saw concern, fear and deep, deep sorrow.
"You must not go with them," she ordered. "I forbid it."
She forbids it, he said to himself. Who is she to forbid anything? She is but a woman.
He took back his arm.
She prepared his breakfast in silence.
He kissed her and left the house that day as usual with his schoolbooks in his backpack.
He walked out of his home, and he went to war.
He fought bravely for two years. Hiding in the mountains with the insurgents. Getting involved in firefights. Attacking caravans with shoulder rockets. Planting and then detonating bombs by the roadside. Doing Allah’s work.
He killed many, but the enemies of Allah were strong and many and they had more powerful guns. They were not to be defeated by small boys with weak rifles.
Then the infidels came to his own village. Somehow, they knew that this village housed insurgents, rebels, terrorists. He followed them. He saw what they did. He could not stop them. He had no bullets left. The infidels had managed to cut off all supplies to "the insurgents."
The lone explosive device that he had in his possession would possibly kill his neighbors and his family along with the enemy soldiers if he used it in the village.
He heard his brothers scream.
He watched as his mother was dragged by her hair out of the house and down the street. She was kicking and shouting and crying. He heard the gun shots that killed her.
He did not look for her body. He could not bear to see it.
Now, as he lay in this field, he reached up with one hand and brushed a tear from his cheek. His brothers, his mother, this field…it was all his fault. If only he . . .
He could hear the searching footsteps coming closer and closer. He could hear them speaking to each other. They would be upon him soon. He knew that if he were found way out here all alone, they would kill him. They wouldn’t bother themselves taking a prisoner.
Without sitting up, he reached over and pulled the thing from his belt. He felt the hardness of the cold steel as he rolled it over in his hands.
There were no tears in his eyes. No fear in his heart. Just a numbness that was the product of deep and profound sorrow.
He closed his eyes tightly. He conjured up the smiling face of his mother as she worked in her kitchen. He heard the voices of his two brothers at play. He saw the top of the waving grasses and heard the bleating of the sheep once again. He felt the warm sunshine on his face. "I love you, Mama," he murmured.
Then he pulled the pin, set the grenade down on his chest and counted softly to himself.
One thousand and one...one thousand and two...one thousand and...