I saw a woman crying today, kneeling by her husband. Surrounded by big bellied wide eyed silent children.

All he had wanted was enough food for one more day, the whimper of starving children and the eyes of his wife had driven him out into the place where no man goes.

Just one more day.

Into the killing fields, the place where death lies silently. Patient and hidden.
Death had waited until he had enough, a few handfuls then had taken him quickly.

A few ounces of chemicals in a package small enough to fit into a pocket.

Placed years ago by some Army of Liberation or Peoples Freedom movement.

Doesn’t make any difference who put it there, mines are not choosy about who steps on them.

To carry a warrior’s weapons is one thing, death is a constant companion. You get used to him leering at you in reflections and dreams.

Sort of.

To be driven into the killing places by hunger and love for your family, that is another.
A completely other thing.
An unfair thing,
a wrong thing.

I have seen this countless time, and each time the pain is the same, deep and wide. Finding places I cannot root it out of.

I sit on the back of the Six-By, overloaded with five tons of food and medical supplies.

Why couldn’t we have gotten here three hours earlier?

Why?

Some days I am ashamed of my species.

'Slick'