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76 Amit Bobrov
know what to do and I couldn’t think clearly. It didn’t make
sense — nothing did. Yet I charged with the rest. Some of my

comrades had been my enemies only a few days before, some
perhaps even friends. Most I didn’t really know. They were just
masks, faces I’d seen here and there in town. Now we were all
blood brothers, fighting, for we were told our cause was just,
while our hearts screamed otherwise.
War is the purest form of insanity, hatred, and cruelty on
the face of this earth, I know this now. Yes, I who have fought
countless wars and have killed thousands, would like nothing
better than to live my life in peace, and I do hope with all my

heart and soul that all humanity will someday loathe wars as I
do now, a thousand years of life.
Only in fairy tales are battles neat and clean; in real life they’re
gruesome and chaotic. There is a time to die, for everyone, and
everything. We live our lives, ignoring the terrible truth of our
mortality. Death lurks in every corner; in sickness, in health, in
joy and sorrow. Death comes to everyone in its time and its

place. In war you witness the workings of Death first-hand, as
every sword swing, every arrow cruising through the air may
mean the death of someone; maybe you, maybe me. Every
soldier; every man and boy, says his goodbye to the life he left
behind, for a man of arms, more than anyone else, is aware
of how fragile life is. I was thinking of my family when I went
to war, and grieved for all the things I should have said and
done. But this sorrow I felt inside, threatened to consume me
if left in such fertile soil; if only I allowed myself to pay it too

much heed. Instead, I clung to another type of poison; one
much deadlier than self-loathing. Anger… Rage was my guiding
light; my shining star. Anger overpowered every other feeling
inside of me, burning deeply through all the weakness, ruling