Beats of the Brutality

A man once assumed that the beats of brutality weren’t enough to portray who I truly am. I am a human, a part of this world and society. I feel so much pain, not just for myself but for my organs. The western war strategies, defined by eastern tactical psychology, have ruined our once happy lives. Tonight, the melody of pain echoes through the broken beats of lost organs. Brutality, in this context, is defined by cruelty. Our state is no longer a home for humans, but rather a hub for human organ trafficking.

I remember when I was in the garden in front of our house; a black van came and took me. As the tunnel started, my eyes were covered with a black belt. I don’t know how long the tunnel was or where it ended, but all I felt was darkness and the slow whispering of dark loneliness. The whispering echoed through the tunnel, pulling me ahead with the sound of the van tires rushing towards the terrifying valley of organ business.

What they wanted were just a few more surgeons to help in their “fresh organ business.” I call it fresh because they strip a body bare, draining every drop of blood and turning it into profit. The war had already destroyed us and our society, but now, it was materialism that was destroying humanity.

It was hard when they brought my son and told me, “We want his kidney out of his body now. Make it happen, or we’ll kill your wife with this fresh blood in her womb.” I was trapped in the brutal beats of this trade, forced to decide whether I would choose cruelty by the means of brutality to save my loved ones. I came out of the bunker with the title of “Operation Teeter,” seeking fresh air to make a decision. The choice was painful, but there was no escape. I cut out my son’s kidney from his abdomen. There was nothing left but regret and guilt, assuming that this decision would haunt me forever.

“I choose the cruelty by the means of brutality.” Throughout my entire career, I’ve never encountered a surgery as challenging as the one for my charm’s kidney. My son, on the brutal death bed, asked, “Dad! Is everything going to be fine? Or is everything going to go wrong?”

“Ma charm, I don’t know how to describe this pain in words. You have no idea how much I’m suffering. This pain feels like it’s searching for something that wants to destroy your dada. But all I can do is accept it and move on. I’ve felt pain before, but this one is different. It’s not just pain anymore; it has become part of my soul, confined in a tiny space and time, and I don’t know how. One thing I must accept is that there’s no cure for this pain. Charm, this pain completely consumes me, but I carry it for you, for our new little one, and for Mama. I need to accept this pain and endure, as cruel as it may seem.”

I know this is hard for you to accept, but what God wailed.

When I realized that the deathbed wasn’t actually my son, the baby in the womb wasn’t the baby, and the mom wasn’t my charm’s mom—it was only a dream, a thought.

A large fire from cannon sounded outside my camp. It was just a nightmare, and the war scenarios were real, except for the organ trafficking. That part will happen soon, for they are planning it.

It’s enough to say that “cruelty by the means of brutality isn’t justice, but a state of a traumatized mind from the cannons outside each camp.”

I know this war won’t end until death comes. All we need to do is accept the pain.

Brutality

This is my story—a father, trapped between war and cruelty, fighting nightmares that mirror reality. I share how pain consumed my soul when I was forced to choose brutality over love, all within the shadow of organ trafficking. Though it was just a dream, the war and the suffering are very real. In a world where pain is normal, I carry my trauma like a second skin.

4

In this post, I share the darkest experience of my life—a nightmare that felt more real than reality itself. I was abducted, thrown into the cruel world of organ trafficking, and forced to make an unimaginable choice: remove my own son’s kidney or watch my family die. Though it was a dream, the fear, the pain, and the trauma were painfully real. The war outside my camp is real. The brutality is real. And the feeling that humanity itself is dying—that’s the part I carry within me every day.