Tuesday, July 14, 2015
I knew I was a child, now a man, of privilege. The grass was always green here and grew very well. In the distance, behind some wall I know I could easily be at, I could see something different. I took the binoculars. There was a man far skinnier than any man should be, he sat naked with crumbling stone buildings around him. He had no shelter from the weather, from the rain. He looked beat down and worn out.
The rich here had bikes, but when I saw them, there was always more than one person on one. That is the type of poor you were dealing with. The poorness you could feel and nearly taste just by the look on the eyes of the child standing in the street, by the looks of the old man’s frail and naked body.
People picked food from withering gardens, stone buildings above them crumbling down. There were no roofs. It was sand and wind and little protection from it. It was a sad, sad scene. The people were either dead, nearly dying, or painfully struggling. Life shouldn’t have to be this way, but it is. The people continued on, somehow. And, the children played in the streets, unaware of it all. That is the hope there. The children smiled and laughed as they played, even amongst this scene. It is as if the children are our most brave hope, because they know so little. Or perhaps, they are such genius that they know it all.
at 10:30 PM