What makes a Country By Michael Hernandez

I remember the days the bombs fell. I had just stormed out of my local coffee shop. The barista made my drink hot when it should've been iced. Part of me wanted to march right back in, but I kept going. It's dust now, that little coffee shop, it’s all dust now.

    If Twitter or Facebook had killed us it would've been more shocking than bombs and a hell of a lot funnier. No, social media, celebrities, and politics were just a long chain of results that all lead to the death of America. Division killed the United States.

    The US government ceased to exist when its two primary parties decided to go to war again. The Democrats dropped the bombs that day turning that coffee shop to dust. The force of the explosion threw me into a car breaking bones, while the shrapnel nearly ripped me to shreds. I’ve been told it was a miracle I survived.

    Someone came to me the other day and said, “How does it feel to be British now.”

    “I don’t know, I’m American,” I responded calmly.

    I guess he would have said he was German had Hitler defeated his brave, courageous forefathers.

    He looked at me confused, and not having the time to answer any more questions, I left. What is a nation: the bricks in the buildings, the roads people traveled on, or the people who lead it? Most of the buildings back home are destroyed and covered in soot; the roads and freeways are all but gone; the leaders who started the war now rule over bones.

    Before I came over to Britain, I was a refugee and after that a soldier. One time I found myself stranded in the middle of a battlefield. The bodies of civilians, republican soldiers, and their democratic counterparts littered the streets. When they dropped the bombs there, I watched the explosions vaporize people out of existence. That morning the capital building had stood tall and proud. Its golden dome glistened in the morning sun. By evening the building had caved in and the dome had been destroyed. For five days the fighting dragged on.

    On the third day, I found refuge in a basement. For the final two days, I cowered in fear between two boxes, praying that no one would find me. When I finally stumbled out, my spirit felt worn and decrepit, like its spark was dying. Soon after I left, I came upon a man in a brown jacket.

    His image is seared into my mind, the olive skin and brown hair. Holes marked his clothes all over like the pox. The jacket seemed to have pulled through though. It looked almost pristine. However, a shadow overcame the man and he craned his head upwards towards the barrel of a tank.

    I screamed, “Move out of the way you idiot!”

    He didn’t move and didn’t even say one word. Instead, the man lifted both of his hands and sent two birds. It didn’t make a difference to the tank, it kept going.

    Soon after watching the man and his bravery, I joined a group called the watchers. We didn’t fight for one side or the other. All we wanted to do was protect people.

    One day the local leader sent my unit to Ohio. While trying to protect a hospital we came under fire and, those not lucky enough to die, found themselves in a POW camp.

    The place looked like an old, repurposed fort. The republican army housed us in the courtyard with no shelter, plumbing, and only a little food. The place had been designed to break us. I saw people kill each other over blankets when it rained. One time a man’s corpse disappeared and the next day a few lucky campers had themselves some stew.

    Everywhere you looked living ghosts walked around weakened and emaciated. They all had a cold, dead stare to them that makes me shiver every time I think about it. Of course, there was one exception to the rule.

    One day I saw a little girl no older than twelve. She looked like everyone else. Except a fire blazed inside her eyes. One day as it rained guards took to the ramparts. It always seemed to fill them with joy to laugh at us, and why wouldn’t it? We were the enemy.

    Well on this day, while they threw things and mocked us, the little girl got up. That stopped the guards in their tracks as they cast down puzzled looks at her. She didn’t scream or stomp her feet. Instead, she started dancing. The dance wasn’t elegant or fancy, but it looked like the most beautiful thing in the world to me. Infuriated one of the guards took out their gun and shot. A stream of crimson soon turned into an ocean covering her shirt and she died alone in that camp. That night we revolted and escaped.

    After that I never let anything bring me down. I always tried to look at the positive. When I felt uncomfortable I would say, “At least I’m still alive.”

    My trip to Britain was an arduous one. It would also be the last time I saw my home. My Unit and I had been tasked with transporting Refugees from the US to over here. We ended up using a large, dinky rowboat. We didn’t want mechanical issues, and most of the boats with motors had been confiscated by the two armies.

    During our voyage, my unit and the refugees we carried came to a horrifying realization. We had underestimated the amount of food we needed and had run out a week and a half before our arrival. Tired and hungry some wanted to give up. My captain aptly pointed out, “If we keep going, we might die from starvation. If we stop, we definitely will.”

    So, he sat down and kept on Rowing. I followed him and soon the others did the same thing. By the time we landed on these fine beaches, my arms felt numb and I could barely walk. Of the twenty who came, only five people died. Two from hunger, one from sickness, and the final two drowned. When we landed, I crawled out of the boat and kissed the ground. The sand tasted sweeter than ambrosia.

    So now when someone tells me I must do something I give them the bird; When people mock and ridicule me, I create beauty to silence them; When the going gets tough I keep on rowing. No, it's not infrastructure or roads that make a nation. It’s the individuals who live within it, and the souls who live within them.