[h1]The World Is Not Ours: The Machinery of War[/h1]
It seems as though the world is burning with war. As if war itself were necessary for peace to exist—or perhaps merely to reveal that peace has always been an illusion.
I remember the night. My sister and I made our way through the streets of a city, alongside a handful of survivors seeking refuge from hostile alien forces. But before that—before we crossed the bridge—we stood watching the sunset descend, leaving behind small settlements and the remnants of battles already fought.
The sky grew darker. The clouds seemed to have stopped moving. And then, when night finally fell, small bat-like creatures began to swarm throughout the city. It was their hour, their night transformed into day; the moment when they made themselves known.
We walked carefully, moving from one pool of light to the next. That was our condition: creatures of the day, confronted by the hostility of the night—a darkness that denied us our freedom. It seemed to whisper that this city, a place built for us, was never truly ours.
It was not our habitat. Nor was it our world.
From one pool of light to the next, the light became our boundary. We could barely move beyond it, never quite able to venture into the shadows. But it was only a matter of time before, in a sudden and savage rush, those creatures would devour everything in their path.
Even our enemies seemed to understand that, despite being warriors like us, the world of night was not theirs either.
Then, who does it belong to?
Who are we in a world where, once stripped of what protects us, we become vulnerable to every form of danger?
I imagine a world in which, for some strange reason, I am the invader, and I am paying the price for it. A prisoner whose eyes ache at the sight of sunlight, unable to understand what crime I am meant to atone for.
Or perhaps something even more unsettling: if I do not erase the mistakes of those who command me, what have I become? Merely a replaceable cog, set into motion within a machine far more ruthless than myself?
That night gave me more answers: the light itself.
The light protects us. It shelters us. We move cautiously through the streets of this deserted neighbourhood, while the wooden walls of the flats creak and the beating of nocturnal wings stirs somewhere in the darkness.
But that light—the very thing that protects us—why must we turn it into a weapon?
There was that laser, for instance, which I used while my sister drove, clearing a path through the darkness so that we would not be devoured by the Kryll, creatures of the shadows. At last, I had heard their name.
And is it not true that the Kryll, too, attack in order to defend their home?
Then who does a home belong to?
I think of that deaf officer, so consumed by the need to win the war. It is easy to blame whoever stands before us when our territory is under threat. To label someone a traitor, an enemy; to disguise violence as heroism, to dress domination in the language of power—this is what brings an end to any possibility of peace.
Peace is not an illusion.
Peace is the recognition of others: the acceptance that they, too, might inhabit the world beside us, and that each of us has a place in which to unfold.
And the Locust—warriors themselves—do they not seem to be defending something of their own? Do they not wage war in order to secure a presence in this world, just as we claim to wage war because we long for peace?
Perhaps that is the cruelest paradox of all: that both sides can speak of peace while reaching for the same weapon.
My sister and I carry on, protecting one another as we go. A few other companions follow behind us. In the darkness, we are shown who we truly are, while the light gives us back our radiance once we have endured the torments of the night. It is then that we are tested—not as soldiers, but as the people beneath the armour.
We rest. We catch our breath. We feel the warmth of the sun upon us. We look upon gardens growing over the rooftops, as though these living things—trees and flowers—have discovered a peace of their own, a way of joining the earth back to the world: the place upon which all of us tread.
It is a pity that the only things able to command the soldiers’ attention are the sound of machine guns and the thirst for victory.
And so we protect one another. My sister goes ahead, and there is nothing left for us but to keep moving forward. To recognise, perhaps too late, that in this war we have been blindly following the ideal of an empire, an imagined threat.
The only thing that feels real is this: I will make it through with my sister.
And yet the two of us are still part of the machinery of war.
A war of attrition. It seems that whoever inflicts the greater wound will be the one who earns the right to peace.
Not for us.
The moment we realise what this greater harm truly means, our task becomes something else: to lessen it, to suffocate every piece set into motion by the machinery of war.
And then, deep within its bowels, we encounter a colossal spider.
It is true that we have the ability to choose before we act, and that with choice comes responsibility. But is there not another kind of choice in recognising that this enormous creature may—or may not—have a home here?
It is like saying that all rats are evil. How can we draw comparisons between beings that are utterly different? The spider may place us in danger, yes. But would it not be enough to defend ourselves? And when, by accident or by our own decision, the creature falls from the cliff, could we not simply leave it there, undisturbed in its own peace?
Instead, we bring forth our finest weapons, and once again surrender ourselves to the illusion of an imposing enemy.
It is difficult, but not impossible, to step outside the machinery of war.
My sister and I take a moment to rest before the battle on the train. We watch as the sunset slowly conquers our hearts.
