Your ill-fated operation shook the populace and brought the worst ever casualty inflicted to the government’s elite force. The nation mourned over your deaths. The tragedy ignited uproars and emotional mayhem.
We only heard of your mishap from second-hand sources of information. We never knew and would never know your version of the story.
The struggles, the fear, the pains you went through, the anxieties you felt, the regrets you had were all beyond what we could imagine. The encounter must have been hell for you, or far worse.
On the verge of death, you probably thought about your loved ones waiting for you to come home. You probably hoped an army of allies would come to your rescue. You probably wished you’d wake up from the nightmare you were in.
If you only knew your lives were to be taken away right there and then, you could have tightly hugged your mom and dad for the first and last time, or kissed your wife once more, or played with your kids longer, but you never had a clue. No one would ever have.
You had always been prepared to die the very day you became armed men in uniform but you never thought it would be that day.
You ended up in that bloodbath. You fought for your lives, for your country. You witnessed your comrades getting annihilated. You confronted death, cried for help but no one reinforced until you lost your littlest strand of hope. You were slaughtered. Mercilessly.
After you were finished off brutally, you were mocked, and even got looted. You became subjects of political clashes.
Your families lost fathers, husbands and sons. Their grief is incomparable. Their loss is inconsolable. Their heartbreak is irreparable. But we could only sympathize.
I wish we could do more. I wish we could keep making noises and have our little clamours turn into a thunder. For the moment everyone stops talking, the moment everyone starts accepting that is how your story ends, that would really be the end, and everything else would be buried alongside your graves. And that would only make you helpless victims the second time. That is not what you should be getting after all.
You deserve not to be forgotten. You deserve more than just receiving flowers and candles. You deserve to be honored, to be served justice. You deserve more than being called fallen heroes.
I wish the dead could speak up for themselves so you could personally tell the world the gruesome truth about your deaths, the unimaginable horror you had been entrapped in. So you could haunt the guilty with remorse, bring them down on their knees, whoever they may be.
I wish your case ends with a rightful closure, and be remembered not as another tragic and prejudiced event in history, but as an emblematic memory of justice prevailing.
Rest in peace, brave souls.