Death can be an unceremonious end to a life full of hope and dreams,’ an unrequited period at the end of a half-finished sentence, hindered in its quest for meaning. That is what death is. In war, death is but a statistic, an number. In war, humanity bends and buckles to meet the ends. But are we at war?
The cost of human life is insignificant as ever. There is no remorse in killing anymore. It is the most unfortunate. How can the person who carried this act expect a welcome in heaven? How can one expect heaven, after leaving behind hell for so many? It is hard to fathom.
What are we fighting over? Religion? Imaginary boundaries over pieces of land? Is any of that worth more than a human life? When a man dies, he takes with him the soul of those who loved him. When a man dies, his family dies with him. What good is a functioning body without a beating heart? They are as good as dead. Humanity mourns in pain at such a sight.
And how does one respond to such killings? By more killing? Time for diplomacy is over, they say. It’s time for action. Do they mean is it time to kill? Where does it all lead to? What is the endgame? We win? And what do we have to celebrate? Death?
In times like these, apparently there is no right, no wrong. Decisions cannot be categorised as white or black anymore. We’re in the morally grey areas now. The grey where death is answered with death. But how else can one respond to death? I’m afraid I don’t know. The only black in this insipid palette of grey is in celebrating death even that of our enemy.
In a utopian world, we’d be living together, working together, in harmony; overcoming tribulations and striving for wholesome progress and happiness. There would be no wars, no killings. The cost of a human life would never be outweighed. Peace and love would prevail. But our world is no utopia. Here, hope is crippled with death and despair. Here, we mourn. We mourn for humanity, for it died with those men.