It was like they hated me, all of the soldiers I saw as brothers looked at me as a bad seed in the unit. I was useless to them, not fast enough, not precise enough, not though enough to rob a man of his life. Few brothers understood me and my soft spot for civilians, but had no courage to confront their brothers and risk being ridiculed, even to lose face and trust which was the most important during battle.
They left me in the base, said “I too soft for this job” and “This isn’t a place to show mercy, because the enemy can smell weakness”. On one hand I liked staying behind, helping the refugees and civilians that survived the enemy charge. Many were kids, unfit to fend for themselves. Playing football with them or dancing was the pinnacle of our day, then the brigade would come back, wounded, angry, tired, all with death and suffering in their eyes. Their dirty faces, covered with black dust, black powder and blood stared at the children, like they wanted them all dead.
It was hard for them to understand that a tender heart can fight the terrorism, many times efficiently than the rifle. My weakness was my strength. I knew these kinds will assimilate and accept their new homes.
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