The sites of battles past are strangely calm places, in general. In Belgium and Northern France, white markers stretch across verdant fields, soldiers once charging across them now lying peacefully beneath. Across the world, we erect memorials that implore us never to forget the sacrifices made, the futility of engaging in conflict and death in a world that demands those things from us daily.
Conflict is everywhere, and memories of these conflicts stalk us through our modern lives - in Warsaw, Poland, the ghetto becomes both a memorial and a place where new generations walk past oblivious; at Kurukshetra, India, a small reminder of an ancient conflict that sparked a religion; in Montana, people from around the world gather annually to dress up as their forebears and walk themselves through the motions, the fighting, the death that still haunts those fields, and in London, the same xenophobic war that has been brewing for generations still picks out casualties in white and red on tabloid banners.
This is Battlegrounds, the place where we fight, and remember the lost, but also where we remember exactly why the hell we want to stay alive so badly in the first place.
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