Eleven Years Ago
I can't believe that it was only eleven short years ago that I was hurt. How could it have happened? Why did he want to hurt me? Why would he want to hurt me? I had taken his usury, his power, his treachery for many years up until then. I always paid the price he demanded of me without a muttering of him lowering his prices to him at all. Why? I paid him a lot of money for his black gold. I shake my head, trying not to cry and failing, wondering to myself, "Why, Iraq? Why?" I was, am still, hurt. All those lives, lost, just so that he could hurt me. I close my eyes, trying to stop the tears that I know come from all the families that must be grieving for their loss today. Husbands, fathers, sons, brothers; wives, mothers, daughters, sisters; cousins, friends all lost because he wanted to abuse me physically instead of mentally. Well, I am now hurt emotionally. He should have known, that, as a country, I would never truly heal. He did know. It hurts to see so many living their lives today as if nothing happened eleven years ago. Not caring, not feeling a thing. Eating, drinking, playing, working, laughing. Their laughter cuts through my heart like a super-heated knife through very soft butter. They may be able to forget, but I won't. I can't. I think to myself, "Why? Why is it you simple humans can so easily forget? How can you forget the pain, the suffering? How? Remember, please, remember what happened eleven years ago so that I never have to suffer like that again." Yet I can't say that to them. I can never utter a word out loud to them. I am their country, after all. How can they even begin to understand the weight and intensity of a nation's, their nation's, pain? They can never, ever understand. I cry even harder now, with only my brother, Alfred Freedom, to comfort me. And that is a very small comfort, indeed. He is crying and in pain as well. None can understand. None in the country that we represent can ever truly understand. I think, "Is this the price for being young? Any pain that is afflicted on you still feels as fresh as on the day it happened? Oh, to be as old as Father Arthur! I might not feel this pain, this hurt, this suffering quite like this. Why was I born a nation? To suffer physical pain when my country, the landmass, is attacked, just like eleven years ago? Is that why?!" I screech in agony, as my brother swears out loud with a voice like over three million lions, saying, "I will never forget the pain you have caused, Iraq! NEVER! Do you hear me? I must not forget. I will not forget. And anyone else who wants to hurt us will get the same treatment that that bastard got! UNDERSTAND! " All we two can do is wait for tomorrow to be here, and bring with it the promise of a new, refreshing day as we hug each other and cry.
