The Flagpole

The flagpole stood tall in the middle of the public square, proudly bearing the nation's flag, fluttering in the wind. It felt immense pride, how could it not? It carried a symbol that represented the history and spirit of an entire nation. Around it, children played with innocent laughter, tourists snapped photos near its base, and even the dogs found its shade a convenient place to leave their mark. Yet, the flagpole didn’t mind, it had become part of the daily life of the square.

It could feel the warmth of the sun in the morning and the chill of the night. Then, that year, winter came with fierce storms. The winds grew stronger, the sky filled with lightning and thunder. The flagpole shook violently, and for the first time, it felt fear. The flag was torn apart and swept away by the wind. The flagpole screamed silently; it was like a mother losing her child. Struck by lightning, the pain didn’t register, for it was consumed by the sorrow of loss.

The next morning, the clouds cleared, and birds returned to sing. Municipal workers arrived, carrying a new flag, its colors bright and vivid. The flagpole felt a surge of happiness as the new flag was raised, and it smiled as the worker climbed up, wrapping his arms around it to secure the flag in place. The children resumed their games, a little girl hid behind the flagpole, her stifled giggles echoing softly. The flagpole felt wider, broader than ever before, as if it could protect and shield the little girl from the world.

Years passed—ten, maybe twenty—and then, something unexpected happened: a civil war erupted. The square, once filled with laughter, became a battlefield of angry voices. The faces of the people were darkened by hatred, and the air was thick with the sound of loudspeakers blaring. The flagpole was terrified, longing to hear the laughter of children once again, but those days were gone. A muscular man, with a fiery red beard, approached and began shaking the flagpole violently. It tried to resist, but it was powerless. The man climbed up and tore down the flag, setting it ablaze before its very eyes. He trampled it under his filthy boots. The flagpole felt violated, as though it had been desecrated.

For an entire year, it bore a new flag, one that was heavy—too heavy. Then came the international decision to intervene, to liberate the country from chaos. A battle unfolded around the flagpole, with the square becoming the epicenter of conflict. One soldier took refuge behind it, and the flagpole felt as fragile as a thread of silk. Machine gun fire riddled the pole and struck the soldier behind it. He fell, his blood spilling hot onto the ground, burning the flagpole like fire. The pool of blood beneath it felt like acid, slowly dissolving it from the inside.

The war ended. The invaders—or liberators—had succeeded. The flagpole didn’t know whether to celebrate or mourn, for the dead were its people, the same people whose flag it had proudly carried for so long. A new flag was hoisted, but this time it was a foreign one. The flagpole felt an alienation it had never known, as though the flag didn’t speak its language. Years passed, and the flagpole couldn’t adapt. It and the foreign flag were like strangers, silently enduring each other.

Life in the square continued. Children still played with the same enthusiasm, lovers strolled, and birds perched on its metal body before flying away. Then one sweltering summer day, a group of soldiers and men in black suits gathered beneath it, whispering. One man approached and laid his hand on the flagpole. It shivered. Slowly, the foreign flag was lowered, folded carefully, and the nation's flag was raised once again, accompanied by the sound of celebratory music. The flagpole couldn’t believe what was happening—it felt like it was flying with joy. Its soulmate had returned. The reunion was beyond words, a feeling so surreal and eternal that it forgot the years of torment, the bitter taste of pain. The flag soared high once more.

But the joy didn’t last long. The next day, a loud rumble echoed through the square as a large crane approached. The flagpole felt fear again. Why? Was there another war? Thick chains were wrapped around it, choking it. The flag was lowered, why? Just yesterday, it had flown proudly. What had happened? Was it another occupation or another war? The chains pulled tighter, and the flagpole felt as though it couldn’t breathe. Slowly, it was wrenched from its base, from the earth it had been rooted in for so long. It was lifted into the air and laid onto a long truck. As the truck drove away, the flagpole saw another new pole, white and gleaming, taking its place in the square.

It didn’t understand. All it knew was that it was no longer wanted. After all those years of endurance, it had become nothing more than a rusty piece of metal, discarded in the municipal yard, awaiting its turn to be melted down and reshaped into something else... perhaps into something better, or perhaps into nothing at all.