Sunday, December 30, 2007
After they have killed our men and destroyed our homes they drop their guilt from the sky. The bags of flour and rice litter the village, bombs of a different sort. I have watched the proud and the honourable scrabble in the mud, finding aggression deep within to keep their remaining family alive. I am no different.
I think I used to smile, but the cracked mirror tells a different story. The muscles in my face have forgotten joy and the threads of our clothes are testament to 'war torn'. The girls have
forgotten 'clean' but remember 'hungry' every minute of their waking day.
Our God and their God do not condone this war but a uniform overrides human nature, I suppose. I override my own nature as I fight for food in the sorry parcels that came in place of Christmas.
I cannot grant the wish for the return of their father but I hope amongst the medicines there maybe something that will help.
I wonder, in 2008, if they have invented a bandage for grief?