I was an eight-year-old girl
I was an eight-year-old girl when I died.
My school was hit by three American missiles.
The conflict could easily have been avoided,
but some powerful men found it convenient.
I wasn't ready to leave yet.
I wanted to understand why it had happened,
and what people were saying about it,
but what I saw only left me confused.
They were arguing about laws and timing
and effectiveness and long term solutions,
and whether those involved
should be praised or denounced.
But no one would get in trouble, because
the men have connections and lots of money.
And then they talked about oil prices,
and how they might rise for a bit,
and how much of an inconvenience
this would be for American wallets.
I was an eight-year-old girl when I died,
but I was considered an acceptable loss.
I am a forty-seven-year-old man, still alive.
I am writing a poem about
what life might have been like
if I had been an eight year-old girl,
born in another part of the world.
I am able to do this because I was born
in a place where at least until now,
I had relative safety, freedom of speech,
and didn't have to worry too much
about the basic necessities of life.
But the day may come when I also
am considered an acceptable loss.
And they will talk about my death
just the same, because life to them
is nothing more than a twisted game.
None of us are free until we all are.
~
March 2026