Iraq - my version

As I look around, I raise my hand to my mouth and wonder what this
world is coming to. Everywhere I look babies are screaming and howling
for food, their stomachs swollen, flies landing on their dark, bare
skin. Their mothers, dressed in thin, ragged clothes, are inching
across the sandy cracked ground, their fingertips probing the dust for
spare food.
Meanwhile, soldiers run around, shouting to each other and jabbering
away in Arabic. Dotted here and there is the debris of past army
recruits, shot to pieces as the families nearby watched. The smell,
which arises from a small pit of human waste, stings my eyes, and I
cover my nose with a handkerchief.
My heart melts for the weeping Iraq civilians. They are no different
from us. They suffer the same; they deserve the same, so there is no
reason why we shouldn't pay the same sort of homage to these
individuals as we do to our own.
We go in there, we fight, and innocent lives are lost. Both English
and Iraq. Troops of brave men and women from every country flock to
Iraq to fight against their army.
Didn't the bible say that we should love thy neighbour? Treat other's
as we expect to be treated? I'm not saying that we should all turn
Christian and start quoting from the Holy Bible, but we should stop and
think about what this war will do to us. We are destroying our nations,
not helping them. We are all Gods' children, even those who do wrong.
We can all have a second chance, yet there are some who don't want
one.
This world was given to us to look after, and take care of. And as we
stand and watch our sons and daughters fight and die in this war, too
helpless, too powerless, we ask ourselves one question. What have we
done to deserve this?
Life is a gift. We should not waste it with war and battles.
I turn away, unable to face the picture presented before me. It
sickens me to know that we are doing this to our people. We are
enslaving them, torturing them, killing them. We've been doing this for
centuries, we know, but it's about time we stopped it.
But just as I'm about to take a step away from this place of hell, a
small, bony hand reaches out and grabs my ankle. I look down and a
little boy of about seven or eight looks up at me with his big, brown
eyes, brimming with intelligence.
"Help," he whispers. "Please help."