53 Stephen Onley –  The Afghan Dilemma 

Stephen Onley (He/him) is a Senior from Halfmoon, NY who graduated from IU in December 2024 with a Bachelors in Mathematics. Stephen is currently in the Masters program of Philosophy & Education at Teachers College, Columbia University. This work was prepared for Tanya Perkins’s ENG W401 Advanced Fiction Writing, who states, “I love how Stephen was able to both innovate in form and dig into revision throughout the semester. Although this particular story is of fairly conventional structure, it is a wonderful example of how thoughtful revision can truly bring a work to life.”

 The Afghan Dilemma 

For the past five months, the unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan were my home away from home, a land where Johnny and I became inseparable brothers of war. Even though we were both from mountain towns back in the US, we still felt out of our element. Three years ago, if you had asked me where I’d be today, I would never have imagined myself as a soldier living out of a flimsy canvas tent in a foreign land, fighting a war that seemed to have no end. If it wasn’t for our interpreter, Zabi, then our only companions would’ve been the constant chatter of gunfire and the stench of death. And yet there I was, watching another sunrise, unable to shake off the constant fear that each new day could be my last.

The people of the nearby town were battle-hardened, living on the front lines since birth. Each day, we would march through the dirt-laden roads lined with mud-brick buildings, some of which were blown apart. Children darted around, carelessly playing as if there wasn’t a conflict tearing apart their world. It was oddly soothing to hear their laughter, a universal language of innocence amidst the violence and bloodshed. For a brief moment, their carefree joy would bring a short-lived reprieve from the anticipation of death.

I spent countless hours conversing with locals. My regular meetings with the town’s officials were lengthy, as the needs of this struggling community were dire. With no medical center, mosque, or school in sight, it was hardly surprising to see children running around outdoors all day long. Whenever the kids would come too close to our soldiers on patrol, the local Afghan police officers we were training resorted to hurling stones at them to keep them away. Imagine that happening back in the United States.

The town hall was guarded by a tall metal gate, its spikes reaching towards the sky. I stood perched atop the dusty porch, where I had a commanding view of the entire township. From this vantage point, I could spot any potential danger. The kids would occasionally sneak over to the side of the fence. I’d take my interpreter over to talk with them.

“Why aren’t you kids in school?” I asked.

Zabi relayed their response. “They don’t have a school here.”

“How do they learn then?”

“Sometimes a teacher from the nearby city comes to teach them,” Zabi explained.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I was shocked. I didn’t realize that there were kids in the world who weren’t able to go to school because there wasn’t an option for them. Then I remembered that, a few months before I deployed, I visited the Museum of Natural History in New York City with some family. In an attempt to bring some positivity to the subject, I decided to show the kids some photos of the dinosaurs from the museum.

“Who wants to see a dinosaur?” I asked naively.

Zabi translated their blank stares. “They don’t know what dinosaurs are.”

“What do you mean? How can they not know about dinosaurs?”

“It’s not something they would learn about even if there was a school here,” he said flatly.

I showed the kids the photos of the dinosaurs anyways and tried to explain what they were, but I was met with a lot of confused faces. One young girl in particular seemed to really like the photos, even though she didn’t fully understand what they were. She was maybe six years old, with dark frizzy hair and emerald green eyes. Despite her frailty, she was full of energy and never stopped smiling.

“What’s your name?” I asked the little girl.

“Homa,” she whispered.

“Do you have a favorite animal?”

Zabi translated her shy reply. “She likes birds.”

I took my notebook out of my cargo pants pocket and ripped out a small sheet of paper. As I began to fold the paper, I could see the curiosity grow on Homa’s face. After I finished folding, I gave her the origami swan. She quickly realized it was a bird and a smile from cheek to cheek took over her face. She ran around filled with joy. After that day, she would eagerly greet me each time I passed by. I made sure to always have something to give her, whether it be another origami animal or candy. Our impromptu meetings lit up both of our days. She reminded me of my own niece back home in New York, innocent and full of life.

One day, she approached me, clearly distraught. Zabi relayed her fear. Her brother, Mirwais, a name that sounded both ancient and tragic, had been taken by the Taliban, his life extinguished with a brutality that echoed through the silence. She, too, was a target. I realized just how much this war had taken its toll on everyone, especially the children.

I didn’t know how to respond. The only thing that brought me comfort was my old rusted lighter. I always felt lucky when I had it on me. That’s probably why I always kept it in the pocket over my heart. I offered it to her, a useless thing, perhaps, but in her eyes, it was a lifeline.

“A talisman,” I declared, my voice firm, my words heavy with the weight of hope. “A magic charm to shield you from danger.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief and desperation. Then, a flicker of hope, a spark ignited in her gaze. She took the lighter, her fingers trembling, and clutched it to her chest. And in that moment, I saw the power of faith, the desperate yearning for a miracle, even in the face of overwhelming darkness.

As the days dragged on, Homa’s absence during our daily patrols weighed heavily on my mind. But I pushed aside my worries, focusing instead on the dangerous mission at hand.

One day, I received a report about a potential improvised explosive device (IED) threat. The standard procedure dictates that we report this directly to the commander of the base. Johnny and I put together a presentation of information and presented it to the commander.

“How reliable is your source?” the commander asked skeptically.

“We’ve worked with him on a few things, sir,” I assured him. “Everything we’ve been able to verify has come back accurate. We have no reason to believe he’s lying, especially since his motivation is not based on financial gain.”

The commander’s expression remained impassive. “I’ll take that into consideration, but I have reason to believe this report is not valid.”

“And what is that reason, sir?” I pressed.

“My guy hasn’t reported on any nearby IEDs. So I’m going to check with him before making a decision.”

Johnny cut in, confused. “Your guy, sir? Who is your guy?”

The commander’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information to you. You are dismissed.”

“But, sir,” I protested, “you’re not supposed to be running sources. You need to send a team out to dispose of the IED.”

He slammed his fist on the table. “I said DISMISSED, soldier!”

I stormed into our cramped canvas tent, my anger boiling over. Johnny followed close behind, his brow furrowed with frustration.

“Can you believe that arrogant son-of-a-bitch?” I fumed. “Dismissing our intel like that, putting the whole patrol at risk.”

Johnny shook his head grimly. “He’s on a goddamn power trip. Doesn’t give a shit about anything but his own ass.”

I paced the small space like a caged animal. “So what the hell do we do now? Defy orders and warn the patrol? Or keep our mouths shut like good little soldiers?”

“Fuck, man, I don’t know,” Johnny said, his voice heavy. “If we speak up, that’s our asses on the line. Disobeying the commander, undermining his authority. But if we don’t…”

His words hung in the air, the unspoken possibility too awful to voice. My gut churned with the weight of it. Lives hung in the balance – our fellow soldiers, young men not much older than boys. The thought of their blood on our hands made me want to puke.

“We’ve gotta do something,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Go to the platoon leader. He’s the one in charge of the patrol in the morning. Tell him what’s really going down. This shit ain’t right.”

Johnny nodded slowly. “Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, right? Let’s do it.”

We crept through the shadows of the base, our hearts pounding, as we made our way to the platoon leader’s quarters. Lieutenant Davis was hunched over a map, his face illuminated by a single lamp. He looked up, startled, as we ducked inside.

“What’s going on, soldiers?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

I swallowed hard. “Sir, we have reason to believe the upcoming patrol is in imminent danger of an IED attack.”

“The hell you talking about? The commander already cleared the route.”

“With all due respect sir,” Johnny cut in, “we don’t think the commander’s intel is reliable. Our source says different, and he’s never steered us wrong before.”

Lt. Davis looked from Johnny to me, conflict playing across his face. “You boys understand the severity of what you’re suggesting here? Going against the commander’s orders, his judgment?”

“We do, sir,” I said, my voice steady despite my nerves. “But if we’re right, and we stay silent, that patrol is heading into a death trap. Their blood will be on our hands.”

The lieutenant rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw, exhaling heavily. The seconds stretched into an eternity.

“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll radio in, try to delay their rollout until we can confirm one way or the other. But you better pray to God you’re right about this.”

“Thank you sir,” I breathed.

As we slipped back out into the night, a new fear gripped me. If our warnings fell on deaf ears, if the worst came to pass, would we be seen as traitors? Paranoid fools crying wolf?

Only time would tell if our desperate gamble would pay off. But in that moment, all we could do was wait and pray that we hadn’t just signed our own death warrants, or worse – those of our brothers-in-arms.

The next morning brought chaos – a deafening explosion shattered the peace, the concussion knocking pictures off our tent walls. Before the sound had even faded, a plume of black smoke erupted on the horizon, not far from our base. That sickening black column, rising like a twisted finger against the pale morning sky.

“Jesus Christ,” Johnny choked out as we sprinted out of our tent. “Please God, let it not be…”

We ran through the camp, dodging between vehicles and tents, the acrid smell of explosives growing stronger with each step. Other soldiers emerged, faces tight with dread. They knew that smell too well. The taste of copper in the air. The settling dust that meant something, or someone, had been torn apart.

As we crested the small rise, my legs nearly gave out. The scene before us was beyond any nightmare imaginable. Where there should have been a road, there was only a crater, still smoking. The remains of a civilian vehicle lay scattered like broken toys. A door here, a wheel there, the metal twisted and blackened.

“Check for survivors!” someone shouted, but the words felt hollow. The blast pattern told its own story.

I moved forward mechanically, my training taking over while my mind recoiled from what I was seeing. Amongst the rubble and debris lay the lifeless bodies of a family. A mother curled protectively around what must have been her child, a father thrown several feet away, his hand still reaching toward them.

Then I saw it. A small hand protruding from beneath her mother’s embrace, fingers curled around something familiar. My heart stopped. Trembling, I knelt beside them, already knowing what I’d find but praying I was wrong.

There, clutched in that tiny lifeless hand, was my rusted red lighter. The metal was scorched but still recognizable, its presence a brutal confirmation of my worst fears.

The world tilted sideways. I heard someone making a horrible sound, a kind of keening wail, and realized it was coming from me. Johnny’s hand gripped my shoulder, but I barely felt it through the waves of anguish and guilt crashing over me.

That laughing little girl who had loved paper birds and didn’t know about dinosaurs… who had trusted me to keep her safe…

A promise, shattered and unfulfilled, lying in the dust of a war that took everything beautiful and broke it.

“No, no, no,” I moaned, cradling the tiny, broken body. “I’m so sorry, little one. I’m so damn sorry.”

Johnny staggered back from the carnage, his face ashen. “This is on us, man,” he croaked. “We should’ve done more, pushed harder…”

The weight of our inaction, our failure, crashed down with devastating force. The commander’s arrogance and disregard for protocol had led to this senseless loss of innocent lives. Yet despite the searing guilt and regret, we couldn’t help but wonder… could we have prevented this? If we had been more insistent, more forceful in our objections, could we have averted this tragedy?

Lt. Davis approached, his expression grim as he surveyed the grisly scene. “What the hell happened here?” he demanded.

“The IED, sir,” I managed, my voice cracking. “The one we warned about. It…it hit a civilian vehicle instead of the patrol.”

“Jesus H. Christ.” The lieutenant grimaced. “The commander has some goddamn explaining to do.”

As we struggled to process the horrific aftermath, to come to terms with our own accountability, a terrible clarity emerged from the smoldering ashes. The lines between duty and morality, between following orders and following our conscience, had become irrevocably blurred. And the price of that ambiguity, that failure to act decisively, had been paid in innocent blood.

“We’ll make this right,” Johnny vowed, his voice low and fierce. “Even if it means taking on the whole goddamn chain of command. We owe that little girl, that family, at least that much.”

I nodded, my jaw clenched with resolve even as despair threatened to consume me. The road ahead would be perilous, the cost potentially devastating. But in the face of such a profound betrayal of our duty, our humanity, no price seemed too high.

We had to find a way to live with the weight of what we’d done, and failed to do. For Homa, for her family, and for the pieces of our own souls that lay buried beneath the rubble of that terrible day. There could be no other choice.