The Right Not to Die

The right not to die does not exist for boys between twenty and thirty. When your country is at war against its belligerents, your value on the meat market is worth two packs of cigarettes and five boxes of cartridges in demand. As soon as a shell hits you, they lay you down in a debris bag, with a tag bearing your old serial number. You are sent back to your parents and friends aboard a cargo plane. On your hermetically sealed coffin, they spread a flag. They prepare a text for the archives of Defense with your best photograph. They are proud of you, of your handsome face. They tell your exploits, and during the religious service, they pretend to believe in it. They spare no expense: a priest to pray, and even a bagpiper. For what little remains, they display your boots, or your pair of shoes. A rifle salute, military honors, so many gestures they no longer know what to do with, as the pallbearers line you up on the pulley mechanism that lowers your coffin into a hole of oblivion, beneath a sky as blue as your eyes. Ah, how handsome he was, ah, how good he was, and gentle too, with his sweetheart and with his friends. Meanwhile, your comrades on the mission are tasked with finding a new teammate for your section of the tent. They change the cot — and it all starts again. — Hey, you, the new guy, how old are you? — Twenty-four. — We’re glad to have you on the team. Go see the quartermaster and follow his instructions. He’ll take your measurements and give you a pair of steel-toed boots, guaranteed to fit. Then head to headquarters to get your briefing and pick up the mission left unfinished by your predecessor. At twenty-four years old, the right not to die — no need to say it, nor even to mention it.