The truck smelled like cattle. Alicia recognized it; they had stolen…commandeered, she supposed they would say…Ben’s truck. Her husband was in the barn when the first bomb dropped. He yelled for her to take the women to safety. She hadn’t heard from him since. She gathered the women around her, which wasn’t difficult with them tied together. She spoke quietly, trying to calm them. It was difficult when she wasn’t calm herself. She reminded them of the heritage of bravery they got from their mothers and grandmothers, women who never let the men see them cry. They lived through many wars; the small country had been invaded from all sides. Two neighboring countries were fighting over control; the citizens who lived there had no say. It would be decided by who had the biggest guns, the most bombs.
Read More“Well-behaved women seldom make history.”
Today, I have a poem. It’s short, but if it says what I want to say, it doesn’t need to be long. For this poem, though, you need to have some insight. If you are unfamiliar with what happens to women during a war, there are plenty of sites out there to help you. The war in Ukraine has been weighing on my mind, and from stories I hear, it sounds like this is like every other war…the women are a tool of war, a prize of war, and an opportunity for warriors. One can wish we had progressed beyond this, but it seems we never do.
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