Losing the battle

It has happened. Already.

The caustic has become run of the mill. Normal. Acceptable.

I had a hunch this would happen.


Paris.

Beirut.

And a hundred places I don't even know about.

The numbers too dense to bother noticing.

Because I no longer care.

I have become immune to the brutal deaths.



Sacrifice is not always a good thing.

A man sacrifices himself to kill others.

I sacrifice my grief and despair for a clammy mind.

I sacrifice love for indifference.


Brussels.

31 dead. At least.

I barely flinch.

Be careful now.

This means they are winning.

Themba's Story

My life is full of stories.

Stories full of sadness and longing, stories of redemption and salvation, stories of forgiveness and hopelessness, healing and wonder.

But this story is a story of violence.

It used to happen when I was five. It makes me shudder to think of it, let alone tell it again.

I have lived in rough areas for almost my entire life. I have lived near bars and pubs, heard the screams and shouts of anger and hurt at night. I have felt terror before sleep, and I have known mindless violence for no reason.

It was when I lived a bit further out that it happened though. One of my chores was to go and buy bread each morning. Lots of children hate chores, but this one chore made me hate bread.

I used to step out of the house to walk to the shop, and as I walked I would notice a trail on the ground. I remember the first time I saw it. I was quite excited – I didn’t know it was blood. I followed it eagerly, a dark trail of brown drips, wondering what could leave such a trail. The first time it led to a house, and I dared not enter there. But I soon saw a similar trail again, and once, it didn’t lead to a house. Instead, it led to a man. Covered in blood and contorted into the strange shape that the agony of death brings to a person, hands clutching, desperate for something his now unseeing eyes must have hoped was there. I don’t know how many times I saw a body when I went to get bread in the morning when I was five years old. I don’t know how often blood spattered the way there. I know only that it wasn’t good. That it isn’t right for children to see this. It cries out of me that it cannot be so.

I use this story of violence and sadness as a springboard. A motivation to see my country and this world changed. A world where violence is no longer present is, I believe, possible, and I strive for it each day. I wonder, would you strive with me?

 

 

 

Based on a true story.

What if these tears are not enough?

It's happened again!
The black cloud of terror,
on the news at ten.
This time it's artists,
Of a creative nature
Drawing pictures that make
some say 'I hate ya!'
Twelve more lost
in this futile war
where only hate wins
each day more and more.
I keep trying to love,
trying to say,
STOP! this killing,
hate cannot pay,
but I'm shouting at stones,
hitting a brick wall,
what I have to say
makes no difference at all.
So instead I cry tears,
they run down my cheek,
I cannot help thinking,
the future is bleak.
So the tears will still fall,
wetting the page,
and love shivers in me,
an inescapable cage.
I want to roar at the sun,
beat the earth to the ground,
but my feeble attempts
are ignored all round.
God's abandoned us here,
here with this stuff,
this hate and this fear,
can these tears be enough?
They're an expression of grief,
and therefore of care,
without these tears,
love isn't there,
so I will cry at this wrong,
I will cry at this hate,
for while tears fall,
it is not too late.
By this they will know you,
that you love and still love
when you are abandoned
and there's no heaven above.
It is in moments like these,
when hate seems to have won
when the tears are falling
and love is undone
that hope remembers,
that faith still lives on,
so we can keep going,
we can still cling on.

Humanity Eliminated

It is with rage
this uncontrolled violence
diminishes humanity

love has been crushed
joy extinguished
terror seeps into the soul

Desire degrading, destroying, denying
Fermenting pain
weeping of the mind

An endless cycle
ever darkening
ever tightening
vicious grip

Despairing. Lost. Empty.

Humanity eliminated.

Sipho's Peace

Scurrying across the room in fear. Footsteps booming overhead, legs churning for his very existence, skittering over the slippery surface of the wooden floor to the hole in the wall.
"He got away again!" cried the child,
"We'll get him next time," called the woman in the room next door.
I hate rats thought the child. He was 9, and an orphan. Small for his age, but growing rapidly now he was eating properly. In the township it used to be that he was lucky to get one meal a day. At least here he ate three times a day and was able to go to school every day. Before he had to look after his little sisters with his older brother. Now, they were all safely in their new home. Victoria, the mother of the house, looked after them. She fed them, cleaned for them and gave them hugs when they were upset. She was also great at fixing things and when his toys were broken Victoria would patiently sit with him and help him put it right.
"Sipho!" His name brought him back to the now, "Why have you stopped sweeping?"
"Sorry Auntie Victoria, I was thinking."
"Oh. What were you thinking about?"
"How it was before." There was a pause. Victoria looked around the door before looking down and then meeting his eyes.
"Do you miss it?"
"No," said Sipho, "but I miss my mother. She used to hug me and her smile made my tummy go funny. I knew I had been good when she smiled. I miss her so much."
Sipho was determined not to cry. Talking about his mother always made him feel upset, but he did not want Victoria to feel bad. He could see she knew he was upset.
"I am sorry Sipho. I am sorry she is not here, but right now it is time to sweep."
With those words the moment passed, the sadness that sometimes crept upon him was swept away like the dust he brushed into a pile on the floor ready to be put into a dustpan and thrown away. But Sipho knew his sadness could not go away. He knew it would return, like a new layer of dust would cover the wooden floor in a few days and it would be his turn to clear it up again. But for now, he could enjoy a bit of peace as he swept. A bit of peace for a little while.

A story based on my experiences with Project Gateway in South Africa

Hold my hand

A couple of weeks ago I took part in a reflection on the cross. Part of the reflection could revolve around Christ in the midst of our suffering. We were in a Church, but the day was beautiful so I took the opportunity to explore. As you walked out the side door of the Church you could see about four rows of twenty or thirty gravestones. Only one, in the furthest corner, was in the shape of a cross. I headed towards it, and as I walked I could see that there were more crosses in the graveyard, but this particular one drew me on.

Still thinking about the suffering of Christ, I read the inscription.

Name
Died 1983
1 hour old

I wept. As I wept I saw a butterfly land gently on the grave; a dog whined. I wrote a poem to try to describe that sacred moment.

Hold my hand

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

The butterfly kisses where the baby lies

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

The dog howls its lonesome cry

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

Ignorant traffic rumbles by

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

This baby died but an hour old

Hold my hand
O precious Christ

Alongside my pain

O precious Christ
Hold my hand.