The first little girl was eight,
blonde and pretty. She lived
in a small town in America,
also called the Land of Heroes.
She was in the classroom of a
quaint little school in a nice part
of the country. I knew this because
she was in a commercial that ran
hundreds of times a day on the
Propaganda Box. Then a square-
jawed handsome man entered the
room He was a soldier wearing a
sharp military uniform. His dark
eyes, the eyes of a hunter, darted
about the room until they settled
on the pretty, little blonde girl
who he hadn’t seen in a year
and he moved quickly towards
her. When she saw him, she
started screaming in joy,
in unmitigated joy.
The second little girl was eight,
olive-skinned with thick, black
hair. She lived in a modest house
in northern Pakistan. I don’t
know this for a fact because
there was no commercial
on the Propaganda Box showing
her. Her house was next door
to an old man she called Uncle.
Uncle was on a list compiled by
Heroes. She was playing in the
living room. Her mother and father
and little brother were in the front
yard, talking to Uncle who was
in his yard, gardening. None
of them saw or heard the drone
approaching, piloted by the first
little girl’s father, known as Hero,
from an operations room on
a secret military base. He fired
the missile and it howled down
at them, and it was a direct
hit. Uncle and the second
little girl’s mother, father
and little brother were blown
to bits in a roar of destruction
and the second little girl ran
outside through walls
of burning black smoke
and leaping flames to see
the flesh of her beloved ones
ripped to shreds and she
started screaming in agony,
in unmitigated agony.