Not a Fairy Tale But… Fourth Chapter, Fourth Story: One War, Countless Battlefields

25 May Not a Fairy Tale But… Fourth Chapter, Fourth Story: One War, Countless Battlefields

“One War, Countless Battlefields“
Fourth Story of the May Monthly Chapter
Written by Aleksandra Panić
Voiceover by Marija Drndić

For years, my Capitol Hill rectangle was a favorite meeting place for my writer friends, Ariel and Will. During and after our MFA in creative writing, we gathered for literary evenings at Elliott Bay or Hugo House, morning walks in Cal Anderson Park, and drinks along 12th Avenue. We talked about writing, the writing life, our characters, and often love and relationships.

In the early 2010s, Will worked as a journalist for a local weekly and at a writers’ house. He was in his thirties, well-connected in the local community, married, no kids, with a mortgage on a condo on Capitol Hill. He seemed to have a firm grip on his own life. Shortly after we finished our master’s, I noticed he was drinking more and talking more. He became obsessed with new ideas — polyamory, anarchy. He wondered how he could live outside of everything expected of him. As the son of a military man who moved every two to four years, Will felt an itch to move; he had been in Seattle too long already. I suggested he write toward the core of his restlessness. I’ve been writing about it, he said.

Only then did he tell me that, at eighteen, he followed his father and grandfather into the US military. He spent time at the academy and US bases, then was sent abroad. I didn’t have to ask where. Knowing the year, I realized it was Afghanistan.

They said the location was empty. Our mission: confirm it. He paused. He was silent for a while, then repeated: They said it was empty. He went quiet again. Eventually, he said the order came: shoot. We shot at walls, windows, and doors. Went inside, kept shooting. Hundreds of bullets. They told us the house was empty. And then, to shoot.

We sat in silence for a long time. I understood everything then. That day, I reached the core of Will’s restlessness, too.

Why did you enlist? I asked him on another occasion.

It was the right thing to do, he replied. They paid for my tuition. I have a military pension and excellent insurance. It seemed like the right thing.

Yes. I understood. At first, it had seemed like a zicer.

Sometime in 2018, Will left his wife, apartment, and job. He moved in with roommates in South Seattle and invited me to parties. Later, he was involved with a married couple. In fall 2019, he bought and outfitted an old van and packed the necessities. For a while, he lived in his van in Seattle’s parks, writing about life outside the system, in daily confrontation with authorities. Then he traveled around America. For a while, he kept in touch, sharing his adventures on Instagram. For a while, we knew he was alive.

Ariel and I last heard from Will in August 2021, after which he disappeared without a trace.

I shot at children, Alex, he uttered through sobs that evening when he finally spoke about his restlessness. I shot at children.

April 2026. At the Institute of Oncology, a long corridor ending in a closed window overlooking the hospital’s inner courtyard can accommodate about twenty women. Today, there are three times as many in front of the office where breast cancer patients come for their regular check-ups. I take a broken chair, so the good ones are left for the women who came in pain. In my third hour of waiting for my mother’s doctor, I start recycling the air I exhale. When I finally hear my mother’s name, I enter Dr. Simonida’s office and hand her the radiologist’s latest report. She looks at me, sighs deeply, and puts the report down on the desk. Can you bring her in on Wednesday morning for the medical board? We’ll change her therapy, and if she’s lucky, we’ll slow the spread. After that, we won’t have any more options. I thank her and leave. I learned the truth about the pincers of cancer as a little girl, from my Simonida.

Exiting the office, I absorb this quiet community of women. We are united by a silent, invisible struggle — not for life, but for dignity. We don’t know each other. We don’t ask questions; we share smiles and say good luck. We are bound by waiting, by bodies that betray, by time measured differently when the word metastasis appears. Malignant cells spread stealthily, at first invisible, then suddenly everywhere. They are detected only in digital scans. The radiologist’s report becomes prophecy.

That evening, walking my dog, I joined a protest in front of the rectorate. I left when I noticed the first signs of violence. Violence is not the answer to violence.

At home afterward, I try to finish this essay, but I don’t know how to end it. I glance up from the screen, gauging the living room. I wonder how many fellow citizens it could hold if I proclaimed a spiritual republic. What would my republic stand for? What would be our struggle?

Klara, Veronika, Eržebet, Laura, Ildiko, Ester, and Gizela didn’t measure Zicer’s square footage or dwell on consequences. One thing was clear — they had to act, and they wouldn’t rest while their sons, husbands, and brothers faced mobilization. They knew the Zicer gates must stay open because their struggle wasn’t just local. These women showed, through patience, through love, how to create and sustain an autonomous zone. It’s a pity Hakim Bey never heard of Zicer.

My gaze returns to the text. Before me is an image: myself as a little girl, obsessed with how a republic is created. I open my browser and type Will’s name again. How many times have I searched for him online, even among obituaries? His pain stays with me — a reminder that there is one war and countless battlefields.

Somewhere, new metastases are always spreading.