I think I knew when I undertook this task that some days would be, well, not easy, but at least okay, and that other days would not be so. . . .
Yesterday, Monday, Labor Day in the US was one of those not so much so days. Words didn’t flow. Concepts didn’t gel. Nothing was smooth. Everything hurt just a bit.
And so it goes. . . .
The refugee crisis weighs heavily on my mind. I feel wrong. I feel guilty. I feel impotent. I cannot watch the news and do nothing. Clearly, I cannot rely on ‘my’ government to address the issue with any compassion. I can give money. I will give money. But to whom? I am not financially wealthy. I have enough to get by, but not enough to truly help. We have extra room in our house. I have discussed this with the man. He quite rightly pointed out that it’s not that simple. But I cannot understand why not. People need care; they need safety; they need, quite clearly, refuge. Why can we not offer that?
Unnecessary obstacles. Political spin. Obscene wastes of money and time and human life.
I don’t want to write about it. I don’t. I don’t write well about it. Writing about it will not change the reality of it. Yet I feel I must.
I feel that not writing about it is an offense to those who are suffering the reality of this every day.
I had similar feelings when the US was celebrating the same-sex marriage decision by SCOTUS while African-Americans were, quite literally, being gunned down by police officers for minor – or no – violations of the law.
I could not celebrate SCOTUS’ decision to the obvious and right and necessary thing – something I have supported for not just years but decades – when another entire group of people was having their very right to exist stamped upon.
I don’t feel I can celebrate much of the here and now, while people are dying in refugee camps and dying in their efforts to reach a safe haven and being rejected and refused every step of the way.
I cannot allow my own life to stop. But I cannot ignore this either.
So, I will write. Badly. Ineffectually. Impotently.