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The Lone Warrior The little boy ran forward from behind the dumpster. His face was filthy and striped with tears. He threw whatever it was he had in his hand at his tormenters. I could not see the other boys from my vantage point on the fire escape. The day was hot and I was trying to find some relief from the blistering heat of the sun. Most times you could find a little breeze to ease the relentless heat. Today there was none. I turned my attention back to the small warrior and his bunker. The other boys had come into my line of vision and I watched to see what would happen next. The group was made up of larger boys, perhaps twelve years old, some maybe ten. The lone soldier must be no more than eight and was either a white child or he could possibly be a light skinned Black or Hispanic. The dirt on his face made it hard to tell. The company of attackers were a mixed group. As far as I could tell their determination to do evil toward the smaller child was all they had in common. There was no way to hear exactly what they were saying. A radio blared from one of the apartment windows, downstairs. Some unknown singer loudly intoned, ‘You gotta’ take it like it is. Ain’t no changin’ where you live.’. I wished they would play a different tune, a quieter tune. I yelled, ‘Can’t you turn that noise down!’, but my voice drifted away on the summer heat. I turned my attention back to the conflict below my window. The bigger boys had moved in on the tear stained boy. There was a circle around him. They tormented him like they might a dog. Poked and prodded, pulled his hair and slapped the crying face. I wondered if I should go down. There was no use to call out to them. They were making too much noise and they would not listen to what I had to say, anyway. About that time, the phone rang. I crawled through my open window, back into the oppressive heat of my apartment. I answered the phone, ‘Hello’, no answer, the line was dead. I heard loud shouts from the street, heard feet running, the sound grew fainter, the voices indiscernible. That bit of excitement was over as quickly as it began. Wait, maybe it was not over. I heard someone calling, a woman. I could not hear what she was saying. I watched her come from the alley to my right where the group of boys had stood. She was looking around as though searching for something. Suddenly her screams pierced the air. I leaned over the fire escape to see what she was screaming about. She was sitting on the ground, next to the dumpster holding the tear stained boy in her arms, wailing, pouring out the horror of the moment. ‘Israel, Israel, did no one see? Did no one listen? Did no one care? No one came to your aid.’ The boy did not move, his head tilted back over her arm the blood dripped to the ground. Suddenly, it was quiet. No music, no voices, no one crying out in grief. For a moment I stood watching the woman cradling her child. It occurred to me that I perhaps should go down to help. But really it is none of my business. I re-entered my apartment, sat down in the discomfort of the heat. It was however more comfortable here than watching from the fire escape. I turned the television on with the volume very loud to drown out any sound. The newsman said, very loudly, ‘Israel attacked. The first missiles landed less than an hour ago’.
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