Now

Once it had been pretty. The carcasses of that beauty still remained. Once it had smelled of roses and echoed with song and laughter. Now it did not.

The valley had been poisoned by more than half a century of conflict. Fighting over it by two countries who acted like overgrown children. Obnoxious, arrogant, overgrown boys fighting over a toy neither of them needed. It had become part and parcel of their national pride. Just like their honor lay in the vaginas of their women, in the very same way, their honor lay in having this piece of land. What had either of them done with the pieces of land they owned? Butchered the inhabitants in some places. In most others, mismanaged and stolen from the native people. Reduced their populations to poverty. Money in the hands of the few. They could not handle their current situations. Yet they fought to acquire more land. It had turned into a useful tool to dog whistle over.

Once it had been peaceful. Now it was ruined. Armed police officers everywhere. Not afraid to use wooden sticks or bullets, mostly the latter, at the smallest slight. The sound of gunfire rang every evening along with the Calls to Maghrib prayer. Mothers flinched and prayed for their sons to return home. Fathers clenched their jaws and tightened their fists. Daughters and sisters wept in silence.

Blood was common. Varying stages. The once remote people, now people used to having foreigners with guns telling them what to do, the inhabitants of this valley could tell. How old the blood was. Fresh sparkling red meant it was shed a few hours ago. Lusterless red meant it was at least a few days old. Brown meant it was more than a few days old. Having soaked into the gravel, the ground already oversaturated with the blood of its young, leaving behind dark stains. That meant it was a few weeks old. People were angry. A once peaceful people backed into a corner. When lions are backed into corners, that is when they become more dangerous. And then the world says lions are a threat to human lives and they should be killed. Their homes taken over. That was the plan. Very conniving. It was working, too.

They were forbidden to mention after the prayer, but the clerics whispered it to those attending, and soon the information spread. Names of those who had fallen at the hands of the oppressors. This is how the fathers and mothers and daughters and sisters found out. The blood of the young males rang hot with pain and anger. The children growing up. Less and less with each generation. And yet somehow also more. They were born into war and conflict. Yet all around them, they were told it was not always like this. All houses were a hotbed of discussion. Most parents trying their best to explain to their offspring that this was not the way. The parents had lived through this and by miraculous rolls of the die had survived. They did not want their children to die.