It was around seven o’clock that morning when my mother walked into the bedroom I shared with my little sister to wake us up. I had just turned six years old and the little one was two and a half. We were living in 1)Benin, where my father had taken a teaching position a few months earlier.
　　As soon as I opened my eyes that day, I could hear gun shots coming from outside. From the look on my mother’s face, I knew something bad was happening and that whoever was shooting wasn’t hunting for food, and wasn’t that far from our home.
　　The three of us then quickly crossed the dining room of the third floor apartment where we lived to meet my father in the master bedroom. Closing the door behind us, we proceeded to sit on the floor between the bed and the door, and to wait. The window was wide open, with a
　　2)screen covering one half. We could clearly hear gunshots resonating on a regular basis outside in the morning air. We knew we were surrounded and that whatever it was, it was the real deal.
　　After a couple of hours, and with no signs that the shootings outside would stop, my mother attempted to go into the kitchen, only a few feet away, to get the family, and especially us children, something to eat. However, the shooters, who hadn’t given us any time for breakfast, saw the door move, and they immediately proceeded to shoot in the bedroom, i.e. at us! And, not a chance that they would have shot through the screen—they shot the glass, which flew everywhere in thousands of tiny pieces. We screamed, we cried, we waited some more…
　　The shooting went on for about three hours. To us, it had seemed like an 3)eternity, and the bedroom now looked like a 4)war zone. Aside from the broken windows and the glass everywhere, there was the damage done by the bullets after they broke the glass and entered the walls. Over the 5)headboard of the bed, there were two holes, each 8 to 12 inches in diameter, where two of the bullets had found their respective destinations.
　　A few months later, the four of us safely returned to North America, having spent less than one year in Benin.
　　Following the 9•11 events, and when the US
　　6)retaliations were 7)imminent, I thought a lot about Benin and the events of January 16, 1977. I wanted to understand what had happened that day and I wanted to know why my family had been, even for a short period of time, in the middle of a war zone.
　　Unable to find much information on the Internet, I turned to the Benin Embassy in Washington, where a nice gentleman took the time to chat with me about the events of 1977.
　　Benin’s political past is, 8)to say the least,
　　9)tumultuous, involving a series of political and army 10)coups. But, in short, in October of 1972, the government of Benin was overthrown with one of those coups, and 11)Major Mathieu Kérékou seized power. Meanwhile, a group of 12)mercenaries, desired to take control of Benin’s government and, likely financed by other political powers, organized themselves outside of the country (in other African nations and in Europe) and they planned the event of January 16, 1977. That morning, they entered the country via the airport, and from what I understand, the building where my family lived simply happened to be on the road that goes from the airport to the government’s central office.
　　On January 16th 1977, Benin’s national army defeated the mercenaries, however, many lives were lost on both sides and many civilians died that morning, merely for having been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
　　Meanwhile, every time I hear about a war, any war, my thoughts turn to the civilians who inevitably get caught between the lines of fire. I think about the families who might be isolated in their homes, scared, unarmed, and trapped like rats with nowhere to go. I especially think about the children who may be old enough that they’ll remember (if they survive), but who are too young to understand or to participate. I know how scared they are.
　　When I hear about the millions of Afghan
　　refugees and the thousands of civi-lians already dead in this war of terrorism, I sometimes feel like a child again, in that I feel powerless and I wish I could make it all stop and go away. But while I can’t do that, I can hope that my story will be yet another
　　reminder to all of us, that the civilians being
　　terrorized and killed (on both sides) are not mere
　　“13)collateral damage.” They are people like you and I and it makes no difference where on earth they live because it’s never their war.
　　


　　


　　


　　
　　那天早上七点钟左右，妈妈走进我和妹妹的卧室把我们叫醒。那年我刚六岁，我妹妹只有两岁半。我们一家住在贝宁，几个月前爸爸接受了一份教职，到这里来工作。
　　那天我一睁开眼睛，就听到外面传来枪声。从妈妈脸上的表情可以知道，恐怖的事情发生了，那些绝不是狩猎的枪声，而且开枪的人离我们家不远。
　　我们三人立即快速穿过饭厅（当时我们住在那栋房子的三楼），冲进主卧房与爸爸会合。我们关上房门，然后一起坐在大床和房门之间的地板上，等待枪声停止。房间的窗户敞开着，纱窗遮挡了一半的窗户。我们可以清楚地听到，枪声每过一会儿就在外面清晨的空气中轰响。我们明白，我们被包围了，不管他们要干什么，反正这次可是来真的。
　　就这样过了几个小时，外面的枪声还没有停下来的迹象，妈妈试图溜进只有几步之遥的厨房，好拿些食物给全家人，尤其是给孩子们吃。但是，这些枪手不但不给我们吃早餐的机会，还一看到房门动就立即继续向卧室开火，也就是朝我们开枪！而且，他们不射纱窗，而是朝玻璃窗开火，玻璃碎片四处飞射。我们尖叫哭喊，只有继续等待……
　　扫射持续了大约三个小时。对我们来说，时间像凝固了一样，而卧室现在就像一个战场。窗户破碎，玻璃四散，除此之外，子弹破窗而入，在墙壁留下累累弹痕。床头板的上方有两个大洞，直径均约为八到十二英寸，洞里分别嵌着一颗子弹。
　　几个月后，我们一家四口安全返回北美，在贝宁居住的时间还不到一年。
　　9•11事件之后，美国的报复计划一触即发，那时候，我想起了贝宁和1977年1月16日发生的事件，反思良久。我想弄明白，到底那天发生了什么事；虽然时间不长，但是为什么我们一家陷于战场之中。
　　由于在网上找不到太多相关信息，我转而询问贝宁驻华盛顿的大使馆，那儿有位热心的先生花了些时间跟我聊了聊1977年发生的那些事件。
　　毫不夸张地说，在过去，贝宁的政治局面非常动荡不安，政治倾轧和军事政变接连不断。但是，简单地说吧，1972年10月贝宁政府在其中一次政变中被推翻，马蒂厄•克雷库少校上台执政。同时，有一群雇佣兵，他们一直对贝宁的政权虎视眈眈，而且很可能背后有其他政治势力资助，后来他们在国外（其他非洲国家和欧洲）聚集整顿，并且策划了1977年1月16日的那起事件。那天早晨，他们由机场进入国内，而据我所知，当时我们一家所住的楼房正好位于从机场通往政府总部的路上。
　　在1977年1月16日，贝宁国家军打败了这些雇佣军，但是双方人员都伤亡惨重，而且许多平民百姓也在那天早晨丧生，仅仅是因为他们在不适当的时间和地点出现。
　　现在，每次我听到关于战争，任何一场战争的事情，我就会立即想到那些正好处于战火之中的、无法躲避的老百姓。我会想到那些可能被迫躲在屋里的一家子，孤立无援，惊恐哆嗦，手无寸铁，就像被困且无处可逃的老鼠。我特别想到那些半大不小的孩子，他们也许已经能记得住战争的发生（如果有幸存活），但还是太小，难以明白战争因由，也无法参与其中。我很明白他们会有多么的恐惧。
　　当我听说阿富汗的难民有数百万人，而且已经有成千上万的平民死于这场反恐战争的时候，有时我会觉得自己又变回一个小孩子，渺小无力，只想能让这些战争全部停火，全都消失。然而我却无能为力，可以做的是希望以我的故事作为对我们所有人的又一警醒——那些受武装恐吓、无辜丧命的双方平民不仅仅只是 “无心之失”。不管他们身处地球哪一角落，他们跟你我是一样的，因为这些战争从来都跟他们无关。