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Narrative writing. By god, I would avenge his death. I would get back at those heartless souls, who dared turn a sniper on a child. I would finish what he started.

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´╗┐Baba Amr, Syria: 23/03/09 The news was on the television, Static blurred the screen as I watched. I wait for a mention, fists clenched tight. Maybe today they will say something about him. ?And in the sport news, Saudi Arabia?? I switch the set off, leaving the filthy room in darkness. Tears of anger well up in my eyes, my heart pounding. I feel an urge to hit something. No mention again. No mention of him being my little brother, a young boy of 14 with his whole life ahead of him. No mention of how he was unjustly shot, merely for protesting against the government regime. No mention of how this was a common occurrence in Homs. No mention of how he was the kindest, most soft hearted person I knew. No mention of the fact that, all he wanted was freedom; the freedom to speak what he wished; do what he wished; act as he wished. My throat tightens and unshed tears prick my eyelids. ...read more.


After a while a bottle of water was passed around. We were all hungry and thirsty. Our last meal was yesterday morning and no one knew if there was to be another. Sharp rain begins to fall as the familiar whistling of shells, pierce the antagonizing silence, I instinctively duck and fall into a crater; a painful reminder of earlier bombings. Mud seeps through my already freezing clothes, slipping through my clothes like snakes deliberately holding me down. The piercing rain slices through my skin like needles, each stinging more than the last. All around me homes are being destroyed by the shells. My brothers are being mowed down by machine guns.. ?My home town has been reduced to a battlefield?, I think to myself, I have to do this; for the sake of my country. I force myself to my brothers; blocking out all my thoughts and focusing on the task. I creep forward followed by the remaining soldiers. We silently line up; facing the enemy; our haunted faces do not betray us. There is no emotion. We are ready for this. ...read more.


I look around me; the bodies of my comrade are spread across the street. Some dead, some dying. Scared faces of those who are left look down at me, hoping I can find a way for them to see their families again. But the destruction continues. Bodies are ripping apart. Hands are blown of their desperate owners. Blood sprays across my face as another brother dies. It is one big horrific replay and it will keep on playing. As I close my eyelids for the last time; I realise I may not do anything physically; I may just be a number greater on the death tolls; my grave may just be an unmarked grave; my body may be left to rest in complete secret; but I know and I believe. I believe that my beautiful Lord will one day grant us freedom. I have just enough strength to reach for my dear brother?s photo and clutch it tightly to my chest. I begin to give in to the weariness and think my final thoughts; ?We WERE the rebels. We WERE the innocent. We WERE the wronged. WE ARE THE HEROES. THE TRUE HEROES ...read more.

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