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Don't Turn Back
Bloated clouds clung to the bloodshot horizon, streaked through with orange from the descending sun. Mountains rose up like stone walls in the distance, flaunting their sublime power over a world of terror and strife. Lacing the hazy air was the smell of gunpowder.
I glanced down at my scuffed boots, noting the tattered soles and crusted leather. The boy followed my gaze, mournful eyes full of longing. After a long moment I removed the shoes, placing them on the dirty, blood-stained feet of the boy. He stared at me for a minute, shocked at this unwarranted act of kindness. He pulled back dry, cracked lips in an imitation of a smile that could have almost been comical.
I stood on a low rise overlooking the city of Tripoli, its graceful streets now marred by the violence that consumed the capital. The air had a thick, hazy quality to it, like one was swimming through a dust storm. Sand engrained itself under toenails, in eyelashes, and between teeth. It lapped at my shins like the waves of a tawny ocean
I watched the dust billow up in clouds behind a vehicle barreling up the slight incline. I turned and looked to the small cliff at my back. Fifty foot drop. Don’t chance it. An unmarked van, bullet holes peppering the white sides, screeched to a halt beside me.
“Filthy American” A man leaned out the window and sneered, puckering his lips and spitting on my bare feet. I stared defiantly down the barrel of the gun leering in my face.
“A cikin akori-kurar. Get in van.” The rifle crept closer to my head.
“B*******.”
His face contorted, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He thrust the door open and threw his fist into my gut. I doubled over as he beat the barrel of the gun on my head, screaming senselessly. My vision flickered, and I felt blood trickling down my temple as I hit the ground. Sand filled my mouth as the sound of the blows raining down upon my body faded.
I woke to the smell of cigars and stale urine. I could feel the shallow rise and fall of someone breathing beside me. Taking my bearings, I could see through the partition separating us from the drivers seat of the white van- three cruel faces outlined in grimy metal diamonds and wreathed with a halo of smoke. The sound of pebbles hitting the side was unbearably loud.
A woman lay next to me, dress torn and hands roped. The whites of her eyes rolled above sunburned cheeks stained with salty tear tracks. I inched closer to her and squeezed her hand as best I could, silently winging a prayer to God, wherever he was.
As the van rumbled along beneath a sky of blood and honey, above a land of smoke and tears, the sands shifted, marking the progress of those before us, and any to come after. For we were the witnesses, the rebels, the martyrs of a struggle for independence and freedom, and we would level our guns with our heads held high until each and every bare-footed child was liberated from the sands of oppression.