The Scars of Watching

Let me tell you, friend, I make a conscious effort to remain present in the moment because, by default, I am a watcher. I like to watch. I was five years old the first time I truly understood what it meant to watch — to bear witness, silently, to the monstrosity of human nature.

I watched as they took him down, their hands as firm and unfeeling as the cable wire they bound him with. He did not struggle. He only whimpered, low and guttural, like a bull too weak to resist but too terrified to understand what was happening. His face was round but uneven, with eyes that darted back and forth, seeking a savior who would never come. I watched as they dragged him like an animal heading to the slaughterhouse, his knees scraping the rough asphalt, leaving behind smudges of blood and flesh that clung to the road like whispers of his doom.

They called him a thief — a plague upon the land. But I knew, even at five, that there was something deeper, something darker in their hatred for him. It wasn’t justice; it was hunger. A hunger to destroy, to feed the monster that lives within all of us, the one that rears its head when we believe we are righteous enough to decide who lives and who dies.

I watched as they forced a tire around his neck, struggling to shove it past his shoulders. He was broad-chested, his body an awkward mismatch of strength and helplessness. They pushed him to the ground, holding him down as he trembled, his lips moving silently as though in prayer. Perhaps he was speaking to God, asking for mercy; perhaps he was asking for the ground to open, to quickly end the shame.

I watched as they drenched him in petrol. The acrid smell filled the air, sharp and unforgiving, making my nose burn. Someone tossed a matchstick onto his body, and the fire began — not as an explosion, but as a delicate touch, a spark that lingered carefully before it grew greedy.

The flames danced first on his skin, their yellow-orange tongues licking him as though testing his resolve. I watched as the fire claimed him, how it clung to him like an obsessed lover, consuming him in seconds. His screams rose in sharp bursts, not words but raw, primal sounds — sounds I still hear sometimes, late at night, when silence feels too loud. His skin began to blister and melt, first turning red, then pink, then a deep, angry black.

And yet, his murderers smiled. They watched him die with glee, their faces contorted into masks of triumph, as though his pain was a hymn and his screams, a melody to their cruelty. They cheered with each convulsion of his burning body, their laughter rising above the crackle of the fire. They seemed emboldened, sanctified by his suffering, as though his pain was the salve for their own wounds.

I watched as the fire fed on him, greedily, relentlessly. When it had finished its feast, it seemed to pause, as if satiated, and belched a cloud of black smoke that swirled upward, mocking the heavens, as though to say, “If indeed God exists, then I have taken one of his creations. What can He do about it?”

The wind came next, sudden and sharp, carrying his ashes and spreading them onto the faces of his killers. The ash stuck to their cheeks, marking them, branding them with the memory of what they had done. But they wiped it away without a second thought, swiping at their faces as a cow would brush away an errant fly.

Then came the rain. It arrived without warning, heavy and relentless, like the tears of a god who had watched too much. It poured over the scene, soaking the ground, washing away the blood, the ashes, the sin. The murderers scattered, their laughter silenced, their feet slipping on the wet ground as they ran. The rain beat down on the empty street, drumming out a dirge for a man whose name I never learned.

And I? I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even move. I stood there, motionless, a silent witness to the depths of human cruelty. I wasn’t horrified — no, horror would have been a privilege, a luxury I didn’t have. Instead, I felt empty, hollowed out by what I had seen.

Even now, I think about him — his screams, his ashes, the way his charred body curled into itself like a question unanswered. I think about the people who killed him and the fire that swallowed him whole. I think about how easily we decide who is worthy of life and who is an infection to be purged. And I think about myself, a boy who stood there and watched it all, too young to act, too stunned to look away.

Even now, as a man, I am still watching. The scenes have shifted — the actors, the props, the stage — but the fire remains. It burns in new ways, with new victims and new faces, yet the script has not changed. I watch as the mobs grow larger, their chants louder, their justifications sharper. I watch as justice twists into vengeance, as righteousness becomes a mask for bloodlust.

I watch from windows, from sidewalks, from screens that glow coldly in the dark. I watch wars unfold in real-time, children pulled from rubble, mothers wailing over lifeless bodies. I watch corruption bloom like a sickness, poisoning the land and choking its people. I watch as leaders lie, as neighbors betray each other, as hope burns away in the slow, steady flames of despair.

And I watch myself — older now, no longer a boy but still too still, too silent. I tell myself that I am helpless, that the fire is too strong, too consuming, that my voice would be nothing more than a whisper against its roar. I tell myself this, and yet, deep down, I know the truth: I am watching because it is easier to watch than to act, easier to witness than to intervene.

Nothing has changed. The fire still burns. The rain still comes, but it is never enough to cleanse the ash. I still stand here, motionless, just as I did when I was five.

I watch. And it haunts me, this watching. It clings to me like the smell of smoke, like the weight of something half-remembered, half-forgotten. It follows me into my dreams, into my waking moments, into the spaces where silence grows.

I watch, and I wonder — will I ever stop watching? Will the fire ever stop? Or is this what it means to live — to stand at the edge of the flames, too stunned to look away, too afraid to step in?