There was once a beautiful valley, lush with greenery and mountains kissed by the sky. The people of this valley lived simple lives, until one day, an armed force decided that this paradise was far too perfect to remain untouched by their presence. “For their safety,” they claimed, rolling in with tanks, rifles, and promises of “development.”
The residents, of course, were grateful. After all, who wouldn’t appreciate curfews, checkpoints, and the charming sight of barbed wire decorating every street corner? The sound of laughter in the valley was soon replaced by the steady hum of helicopters overhead and the occasional crack of gunfire. “We’re here to protect you,” the armed force said, while homes burned and families disappeared into the mist.
When people protested, demanding dignity and justice, they were met with the “gentle persuasion” of bullets, tear gas, and pellet guns. Entire generations grew up with one eye—literally—on the armed guards, learning the art of survival amidst occupation. But hey, what’s a little blindness compared to the privilege of being “protected”?
Years turned into decades. The armed force excelled at their job: mass graves sprouted like wildflowers, children memorised the sound of boots on cobblestones, and mourning became the valley’s unofficial anthem. But then, after years of resistance and rebellion, the armed force made a grand announcement: “We have brought peace!”
Ah, peace! That magical word. No one quite understood how peace felt like silence in the graveyards or fear in the markets. But apparently, it had arrived. “See?” the armed force said, patting themselves on the back. “Everything is fine now. Smile for the cameras!”
Tourists were flown in to take selfies in front of the very mountains that had witnessed unspeakable horrors. Meanwhile, the valley’s residents whispered their grief in shadows, careful not to disturb the fragile façade of calm. After all, everything was fine, wasn’t it?
And so, the armed force stayed, a permanent guest in a land they had claimed to save. They celebrated their success, sipping tea on the ruins of what once was, while the valley mourned in silence.
When the oppressor writes the ending, it always reads, “And they lived happily ever after… or else.”
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