Turning Up the Dial

The picture of the starving boy was known worldwide. The ribs stretching, as if meaning to escape his body, and escape the hell that served as a town for him, as a country for his people. The swollen stomach, taut, thick, swollen, lost to hunger. He could not be more than two. His hair was thin, brittle. His eyes beautiful, creases lined his face. Lips swollen, dry and parched. Ears sticking out. The world could almost smell the bombs, could taste the enforced starvation. Would see the images of desolation and misery, in a town that had so ancient a history, so vast a culture, all these things. They shuddered as they saw them, held their loved ones closer on those nights, and woke up with a free conscience. Men had stopped being like one body in their mutual love and mercy. When one part of a body is in bad health, the rest of the body should join it in restlessness and lack of sleep, and should be busy with its treatment. Men did not adhere to the old ways. Men had lost their way.

Every day, the call to prayer would signal the first of the bombs dropping. They dropped from so high and dropped so fast, you could not see them until they were nigh upon you. You could hear the whistling of the wind, almost imagine the rattling of the metal, and the hungry, poisonous chemicals hissing inside them. You could almost smell the death they would bring. Could smell the smoke, could feel your fingers singed already, as if the fire was upon you now. Could taste the poison that would linger and never leave, an unwelcome houseguest.

The gas was already thick, and hung over the town and cities, children that had been born into this war did not know what clean air looked like. It was nothing to them, a fairytale. Even children as old as twelve had forgotten. Those who remembered had lost all hope, eyes blank and desolate. No horror, no terror. Worse. No hope.

The bombs would stop. The soldiers would come in. They did not look like humans, with their thick gear, heavy boots that stomped on the ground, dust swirling in their wake, eyes covered with goggles, if they had eyes at all, if they were humans at all. They were a different species to those who had grown up in this war. Noses covered by long thick masks. Dust sticking onto their clothes, onto their boots that had once been pristine and polished. Now they bothered no longer to keep them intact.

***

In two different parts of the world, two men stood and thought about this place that humanity had deserted. Sure they protested whenever the stakes were turned up. Sure they had resolutions and discussions, and embargos. But they did nothing. This had been an experiment in indifference. The dial had been turned up. Humanity had chosen to stand by and do nothing. One of them sighed. One smiled. Both felt terrible, they knew the costs. They knew what had to be done. Neither liked it.