Rarely are we gifted with foresight in times of war, our choices guided only by the strength of our arms, the speed of our bullets, the bravery and cowardice of our guesswork.
Sometimes I think of you as the enemy who only happened to be on the other side, our bond tended only by my makeshift hostility, your open declaration against alliances.
There is nothing more violent than our silences. Yours is land fenced and barbed, intent upon the defense of the territory. Mine is bare desert, pierced with the treachery of mines.
Rarely are we gifted with foresight in times of war. In the clarity of now, and with the aid of flimsy metaphors, I think I understand, a little, why.
*photo is from the movie adaptation of Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient