War is an organized conflict between humans that always leaves suffering, both for the defeated and the victorious. It is like a fire that devours everything, leaving only the ashes of destruction and the embers of vengeance that continue to smolder.
For those who lose, war takes lives, land, families, and honor. Meanwhile, for the victors, although they manage to gain territory or power, they still lose soldiers and resources. More than that, they are often haunted by trauma and grudges passed down to the next generation.
That is why there is an ancient Chinese proverb from Sun Tzu that says: "There is no real advantage in prolonged warfare."
A warning that understands that the cost of victory can ultimately far exceed its value.
Ironically, the history of human civilization is filled with war. In almost every era, warfare has been an important part of societal dynamics, whether to defend territory, expand power, defend beliefs, or control limited resources.
A grim popular claim often circulates: in the record of approximately 3,500 years of written human history, only less than 300 years were truly peaceful.
Another broader analysis states that out of 5,500 years of civilization, only about 200–300 years—or roughly 5%—were truly free from armed conflict somewhere in the world. This means that about 95% of human history has always been shrouded in the shadow of warfare.
Even in the 21st century, in an era often trumpeted as the pinnacle of peace and globalization, war has not truly disappeared. It has merely changed its face, but the essence of its cruelty remains the same.
As is happening on a peninsula in the Middle East.
City buildings that were once magnificent and beautiful have now been razed to the ground by missile bombardments from occupying forces.
With political, military, and financial support from a superpower behind them, the occupying nation freely seizes land, demolishes homes, forcibly evicts indigenous residents from their ancestral lands passed down through generations, and claims the land as their own.
They erect concrete walls dozens of meters high, fenced with barbed wire and guarded by armed soldiers, imprisoning tens of thousands of civilians in an enclave dubbed by many human rights organizations as the world's largest open-air prison.
However, the cruelty does not stop at eviction and confinement. Vital water sources are poisoned, supply routes for food and medicine are blockaded, and air and ground attacks are launched indiscriminately. Children, nursing babies, women, and the elderly—none are safe.
Videos leaked to the internet show occupying soldiers laughing uproariously while slaughtering innocent civilians. They do so confidently, because they know the international community will ultimately only watch in silence and issue meaningless statements of concern.
Even the UN, established with the noble purpose of maintaining world peace, has proven to be nothing more than a mascot.
Every firm UN resolution attempting to impose sanctions or pressure on the occupying nation is easily overturned by the veto power used by its superpower protector.
"..."
In a refugee camp on the beachfront, where shabby tents made of tarpaulin and used cardboard serve as temporary homes, a fifteen-year-old boy stands rigidly.
His eyes, which should still shine with teenage cheerfulness, now burn with seething anger.
He witnesses from a distance his countrymen being shot dead by the occupiers' naval patrol merely for trying to catch fish in waters that were once where their fishermen sailed, attempting to alleviate the gnawing hunger.
"Why?"
"Why does the world only watch in silence as we are oppressed? Is it our fault we were born here? Are we not human to be treated like this?"
The boy's name is Azlan Farid. His name, given by his educated parents, means "The Unmatched Lion"—a prayer and hope that he would grow up brave and noble.
Now, he is alone. A worn photo in his pocket is the only reminder of his family.
His father, a high school teacher, was killed in an air strike that bombed a school.
His mother died from an untreated illness due to the medicine blockade.
His toddler sister died in his arms after inhaling biochemical weapons spread around their settlement.
His family members had departed, one by one, under the shadow of firearms and the brutality of occupying soldiers.
His blood boils. His tears have dried up, replaced by blazing embers of hatred.
"This is all because I'm weak! Because we're all weak!" He mutters to himself, his fists clenched tight.
"Why can that damned occupying nation be so arrogant even though hated by many countries in the world? It's because there's a superpower backing them! Giving them weapons, money, and protection!"
"Thanks to that, they don't care about condemnation, resolutions, or the words of other nations. They keep breaking the rules, as if this world belongs to them alone!"
In his boyish innocence eroded by suffering, Azlan concludes how the world works.
"Rules are always made by the strong to bind the weak. The strong never have any intention of obeying the rules they make themselves. And world rules are made by the strongest, so it's impossible they would allow themselves to be limited by them."
At fifteen years old, Azlan is no longer a child. He has experienced firsthand how cruel and unbalanced the world is.
The embers in his eyes are no longer merely tears, but a fire of vengeance demanding retribution.
A determination begins to crystallize in his wounded soul—a determination to become strong, to change the rules, or to destroy them altogether.
The unmatched lion has just been awakened from its sleep by the roar of fighter jets and cries of death. And a wounded lion is the most dangerous creature.
"After three months without supply assistance from outside, finally there's a nation brave enough to enter this country's airspace."
Looking up at the blue sky grayed by smoke, Azlan squints his eyes, shielding against the sun's glare.
In the distance, a large shape moves slowly. A Hercules transport plane, dark gray in color, flies closer at a fairly low altitude.
Not just Azlan. The entire camp population seems jolted by an electric current.
The sound of that plane is music to the ears of those who are starving. Faces that were previously listless and despairing now look up, filled with an almost forgotten emotion: hope.
"Aid! That's aid!" Someone shouts, their voice hoarse but full of joy.
Excitement spreads like fire in dry grassland. People rush out of tents, pointing to the sky, praying, and some crying with relief. They're like seeing a savior angel in the earthly hell they're experiencing.
*SWISH!* *SWISH!* *SWISH!*
Moments later, from the rear door of the now-open Hercules, hundreds of brightly colored containers—with clear international codes—are dropped.
The containers immediately deploy their large, colorful parachutes, slowing their descent to earth. They descend swaying gracefully beneath the sky, like flowers blooming in the air, carrying the promise of life.
"..."
Azlan doesn't need to think twice. His stomach, growling after two days of only filling it with salt water and a piece of grass, becomes the main motivator. His blood flows rapidly, temporarily dispelling his weakness.
"I must get it!"
His eyes target one container estimated to land not too far away, around a small sand dune at the edge of the camp.
With energy pumped by adrenaline and hope, Azlan dashes forward. His thin legs step nimbly between tents and rubble.
He's not alone. A wave of humanity—men, women, even older children—run in the same direction, chasing those lifesaving parachutes.
It is a race for survival!
Spirited shouts fill the air. The atmosphere transforms from a silent graveyard into a bustling racecourse. Each container means human lives might be saved.
"Haaa... Haaa... Haaa..."
Azlan pushes himself, ignoring the dust entering his eyes and his increasingly labored breathing. He focuses his attention on one container whose bright orange parachute floats ever closer to earth.
His hope hangs on that box swaying in the wind.
The race to embrace life has just begun. However, in the clear sky, behind the shadow of the departing Hercules, no one notices another pair of eyes watching from afar, from behind binoculars in an occupying army watchtower.
A long sniper rifle lies beside them, silent, and waiting.