They Built Monuments. We Became Dust.

It began with promises.

They told us we were chosen.

They told us history waits for brave men.

They told us our names would echo forever in stone and song.

So we followed.

Across dry valleys where nothing grew anymore.

Across broken bridges hanging like tired bones over silent rivers.

Across cities already learning how to die.

I was not born a soldier.

I was born someone’s son.

Someone’s brother.

Someone who once planted fig trees with his father and believed life was simple.

But glory has a louder voice than memory.

The generals spoke of honor.

The kings spoke of destiny.

The banners spoke of victory.

None of them spoke of graves.

We marched under burning skies, our shadows stretching longer than our hopes.

Boots sank into mud mixed with blood.

Every night fewer voices answered roll call.

At first we counted the dead.

Later, we stopped.

Because numbers grow heavy on the heart.

I remember the boy from the eastern hills.

He carried poems in his pocket.

He showed me lines he had written about clouds and rivers.

He said he would open a small bookstore when this was over, somewhere quiet.

A week later, his helmet lay beside him, split like fruit.

I remember the man with silver hair.

He taught me how to clean my rifle.

He shared dried dates with me during long watches.

He whispered prayers before every battle, even when shells screamed above us.

He bled quietly in the rain.

No songs were written for them.

Only silence.

They told us heroes rise in war.

But I only saw men fall.

I saw brothers dragging brothers through smoke.

I saw medics screaming at skies that refused to listen.

I saw children hiding behind doors while their homes burned.

I saw mothers in villages staring through us like ghosts, holding empty bowls and unanswered prayers.

We burned fields to protect borders.

We broke homes to preserve flags.

And somewhere far away, powerful men toasted our courage with expensive wine, speaking of strategy and sacrifice as if they were chess moves.

They never smelled burning flesh.

They never held a dying friend.

On the last night, before the city collapsed, I sat beside a shattered wall.

The moon looked tired.

Ash drifted like gray snow.

I wondered if my mother still watered the plants near our door.

I wondered if my younger sister still waited for my voice messages.

I wondered if my father still sat on the rooftop at sunset, listening to old songs.

I wondered if anyone would remember my name.

The radio crackled.

Orders came.

Advance.

Always advance.

Never return.

We moved forward because that’s what soldiers do.

Even when legs shake.

Even when hearts beg for home.

Even when every step feels like walking deeper into a grave.

Then the explosion came.

It was not dramatic.

No slow motion.

No heroic music.

Just light.

Pressure.

Then weightless silence.

No final speech.

No brave last stand.

Only dust.

They will build statues after this.

Tall ones.

Cold ones.

They will carve dates into marble and call it sacrifice.

They will teach children about brave victories and glorious campaigns.

They will show maps with arrows and timelines with battles.

But they will not teach them about the boy with poems.

Or the old man with prayers.

Or the medic who worked until his hands shook.

Or the thousands who became shadows beneath someone else’s ambition.

They will remember the commanders.

We will become footnotes.

Names listed too small to read.

History loves leaders.

It loves crowns and speeches and flags.

But it forgets soldiers.

It forgets the hands that carried stretchers.

The backs that bore ammunition.

The eyes that saw too much.

They built monuments.

We became dust.

And somewhere, long after the guns fall silent, the wind will pass over empty fields and ruined streets.

It will carry no medals.

Only memories.