Autobiography of a sword
It is midnight. When the whole world sleeps, I realize that today is my birthday. One might ask why there is no enthusiasm in my words. Why there are no festivities? It is because who I am and what I have done.
I am a sword and I have taken lives.
It is funny how life takes its course sometimes. I was brought out of an iron mine as a crude piece of iron. While other pieces brought out with me became ploughs and hoes that would go on to sustain the human life, I became a sword designed to take that life. I had such a perfect shape and strength that my maker was pleased with me. “Ye shall grace the hand of the king” he said as he ran his hands on my blade. He gifted me to his king. The moment the king took hold of me and gave me a swing, I knew I was in skilled hands. Now I lay in my sheath basking in honor and waiting for valor beside my new master.
Time soon came for me to do my duty when the king invaded a strange land. His massive and disciplined army triumph the battlefield. I found myself being rubbed against the neck of my king’s defeated enemy. I moved against that neck as swiftly as a knife against butter.
The war was over. Now I figured I would return to my sheath for a long rest. But that was not to happen. The king proclaimed his rule over a land quite different from his own. He had to assert his rule. In the following days, I cut through the hearts and necks of unarmed people.
I am a sword. I am used to the crashing and thudding against other swords and armors. It is my duty to kill the warriors. What had the ordinary people done to my king? I cut the hands of skilled artisans, I beheaded beautiful idols, I became a party to the destruction of a culture.
Why does one man think that his culture is superior to the other? Can’t all be equal and different instead of superior and inferior? The remnants of the very culture I destroyed stand opposite me in a museum today. They are treated like treasures. No one cared about them...