head shaking at the weight and volatility, "This, is, not a schoolyard."
Most of the living people near the pile of bodies were students and missionaries. And one had been backhanded for calling the decidedly anti-human rights people with machine guns, (i)bullies(i).
"Nobody leave."
"I didn't think we were allowed."
"That too." An Israeli man looked at photographs by journalists of other piles of bodies.
There had in fact been decisions made. Throughout spontaneous soccer games and at tables where porridge was the only option to "get something in your stomach", youth were courted. Most were promptly wedded to machine guns and long knives. Crates and crates of grenades and dynamite sat on the wharf beside rotting vegetables and donated used clothing. News of the pirated AID never making it out of "humanitarian crisis" zone.
Mumbled warnings that "everything is political" made way through groups and orgs with other focuses besides "politics" like religion and education, but this seemed to create a vacuum in "action". Within a short time span people were just people, some with weapons and some without.
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