I cannot remember exactly how old I was the first time I held a gun, but I was almost certainly in my teens, growing up on my parents’ farm.
What I do remember, vividly, is the physical shock of firing a rifle. The deafening bang. The juddering recoil, and the sickening, split-second fear that I could have somehow fired a bullet into anything from a faraway cow to my foot.
I think of this when I read about one particular aspect of the brutal war in Ukraine: the city workers who have taken up arms against invading Russian forces.
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