The Price of War

War does not begin with bullets.
It begins with words—
with anger given a uniform,
with hatred taught to remember
what peace tried to forget.

Then comes the fire.

A child wakes to a sky
that no longer carries birds,
but metal wings and thunder.
His mother calls his name,
yet her voice is swallowed
by the sound of collapsing homes.

Somewhere, a soldier is crying too.

He was once a child
who ran barefoot beneath the sun.
He had dreams,
a mother who prayed for him,
a home that knew his laughter.

But war placed a weapon in his hands
and called him a hero
before asking him
to destroy another mother's son.

And so the earth drinks.

It does not ask
which blood belonged to the innocent
and which belonged to the guilty.
It receives them all
with the same terrible silence.

War raises flags over graves
and calls it victory.

But what victory is this
when fathers do not return?
When mothers sleep beside empty beds?
When children learn the language of fear
before they learn the language of hope?

A city may survive the bombing,
but who rebuilds the human heart?

Who gathers the dreams
scattered beneath the ruins?

Who tells the orphan
that the world is still beautiful?

War may end on paper.
Leaders may shake hands.
Cannons may fall silent.

But somewhere,
a child will still be waiting
for a father who will never return.

And somewhere,
a mother will still set the table
for a son who has become
only a photograph.

This is the price of war:

Not the weapons.
Not the money.
Not the land.

The price is people.

And long after the last bullet falls,
peace will walk through the ruins,
quietly asking:

“Was it worth it?”

Author: Prince Munir Bin Is'haaq

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