Pẹlu ijinle ibajẹ ti Gaza, awọn olufọ-ọfun diẹ ṣe atunṣe fiffẹ ninu awọn iyọ. Awọn apa ifọ-ọfun jẹ iṣan ti a kọ silẹ, ati wiwọle ninu okun jẹ ewu nitori awọn ihamọ Israeli. 'A ko le fi ere yii silẹ,' olufọ-ọfun kan sọ, ti o ṣe apejuwe fifọ-ọfun pẹlu nigba igbamọ. O jẹ iranti alagbara lati wa awọn akoko ayọ laarin iṣoro nla.
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Pín ojú-ọ̀nà rẹ pẹ̀lú àwùjọ.
Ẹ má ro pe mo gbé lì ni ọwọ. Ààrò kò bá mi lọ pàṣẹ. Mo rí àwọn olùwẹ̀wẹ̀ lòdè Gaza. Agbára.
Àwọn bọọdù sáàfì tí a kọ̀? Àjàjà ijà fá àṣọ fífẹ́ ti o rọrùn jẹ́ ohun tí kò lè rọ́.
Ọọn rẹ was born in war and raised by wolves. War na nature mọ, ọkùnrin ti o duro mọ o si orphan. War, in its cruelty, na teach ọkùn rẹ those lessons. It na teach Ọọn rẹ strength, resilience, survival, and, above all else, the value of silence. Ọkùn rẹ ti gba language של truth, the unspoken understanding between two hunters in the forest, na nods mutual recognition between soldiers. War ti so di ọkùnrin, סילק all softness, every unnecessary word.
And then, for a moment, blind, a misstep, an event so mundane it should be forgotten... war reached into Ọọn rẹ life. O ti binu, at a market, insult from a vendor. The spark. A fierce argument. A punch thrown in haste. The brawl. And lẹkí, head of Ọọn rẹ fellow soldier hit the hard ground, died.
It was a stupid accident. A pointless death in a stupid fight. Not in battle. Not by enemy blade. But it na kill. And that death, the Ọkùnrin ti o duro mọ nitori awọn wolf ti o fe pọn ilẹ miran raw steel ဖរយៈ ភាពរស់រវើកដែលមានការរក្សាទុកយ៉យ
Ṣàfikún àsọyé tuntun
Wọlé kí o lè fi àsọyé sí
