A Soldier’s Letter to his Sister

This is one of the most common titles used when assigning grade 10 students the topic of war to write an essay. A soldier’s letter home may or may not reflect the bitterness or war and its true form, but of all the fictional letters home from war I’ve ever read, this is the most…what do I call it? It just leaves a lump in my throat whenever I think of it. I found this in one of my old school magazines (Mashal 1996)—I was in fourth grade when this was published, and the writer, Amina Hassan, must have been in the 11th—this should be one of the texts they make you read in composition writing classes. No Gettysburg Address can be better than this; the very style it’s written in makes my heart clench. I’ve been meaning to type it down for a long time, and I finally got around to it. Tenth grade—the author must be about 15/16 when she wrote this—a bit of immaturity can be seen in this letter, but it doesn't really matter...I have no idea where she might be now, but hats off to you, wherever you are… Dear Anne, There was a time when I had faith in people; in their goodness and compassion. But war has shattered all my beliefs. It has shown me power-hungry animals hidden in uniforms. It has given birth to a man in me who, when the boy I once was, liked to believe, did not exist. A man who has died so many times that he does not hesitate in taking lives. He shoots blindly, till the black shadows looming ahead of him are red. He does not flinch or regret, but keeps staring into the nothingness around him, waiting quietly for the answers to his unspoken questions. During the endless nights when I’m suffocated by the red sky and black procession of promises from the lips of hidden faces, my colleagues tell me I’m fighting for honour. Yet, none of us here really know why this foreign soil has become home for the dreams of so many blue-eyed youths. But I have not let this war defeat me. Tears streamed down my face only once when I carried an infant’s blood-soaked body to his mother. I made no effort to control them and from then on tears abandoned me. Yesterday, as my best friend was going back home, he was shot in the back. A crooked smile was plastered on his lifeless face as I carried him to our camp. I did not cry. I couldn’t cry. So, I laughed; laughed a hoarse, dry laugh at nature’s sick sense of humour. There are times, princess, when while waiting for death to pierce the think silent air, I feel I’m running out of memories. Red and black and purple taint the fresh blues of my eighteen years. I feel bitterness settling into my soul. So I recite; I recite without rhythm and passion the old country songs. They think I’ve gone mad, but I don’t care anymore. I see myself in the lifeless eyes of the dead. I fear never seeing you again. I fear being blown into so many pieces that you won’t recognize me. But death itself cannot threaten me. I’ve battled death and laughed in its face because I know I’ll always live in you. My dreams will find room to dance again in yours. Our affection is eternal and of the many songs carried by the wind from te blue-eyed country roads, some will always be yours and mine. Yours always, Usman.