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                                               “Fatima”Grabbing a hold of my arm we make our way off the boat to the dock where a local car and driver is waiting to takes us to our hotel. Not long after we start driving, we leave the illusion of prosperity offered by the hands of the port and enter the edge of a small village. Armed forces are scourging the people. The driver slows as we make our way through. Along the passenger side of the vehicle, a soldier has forced a young boy to take his machete weapon. He’s probably twelve or thirteen, but looks quite younger from the emaciation in his bones. An even younger looking girl standing next to him crying. Reluctantly taking the handle of the weapon of war, a tear rolls down his cheek. He’s grown up with the stories and fears, but here was the reality of it forcing its will upon him. The devil stepping in to play lots with God’s heart. Holding his assault rifle to the boys head, he yells at the child to slice the girls throat or be killed. The driver informs us of the truth, that if the boy does not kill his sister, he will be killed and her body raped and beaten, left for dead. Blurring the lines of justice to a child who just wants to be anywhere but there. A final warning from the soldier and the boy screams while slashing at the throat of the girl. He is quickly taken away by the soldier. The still from of the moment is panned out to recognize the chaos and confusion of children running and mother’s crying while babies are ripped from their arms. The driver tells us that the men in the village were killed some time prior, in a march of cleansing through the area. The militant forces react without hesitation, as though some twisted sense of Allah’s words have justified these atrocities. Killing some and taking others under the rains of wails by mother’s swept away in a hurricane of horror. Just hours ago, they were concerned with the efforts of finding food for their family. Suddenly, Satan himself has stepped up to force back the thoughts of the luxury of food that the mind may focus on the anguish of the moment. Allyson buries her  face into my shoulder, whispering to herself in disgust “Why doesn’t anyone stop this”? I know she’s not looking for an answer, just trying to process the thoughts of so much sour amid the sweet she’s been pampered in. Compassion becoming the reining thought in her mind, the same compassion that the mother’s cried out with, and the same compassion the boy used to take his sister’s life. Suddenly, a United Nations cargo plane drops pallets of foreign aid just outside the commotion of the village.  The soldiers gather their newly selected recruits to intercept the delivery before local establishment can properly distribute the food and medical supplies. Leaving the edge the town, the car has grown eerily quiet, our thoughts serenaded by the sound of a Somalia Dreamer . I start drifting back to the empty streets again. How can those proclaiming the nobility of their actions with feeding the hungry just toss boxes of containers to the ground. Walking away, yet keeping one eye on the spectacle to ensure their righteous deed for the day has been fulfilled. Making a mockery of the invisible people by dictating they flock to the food like pigeons in the park. Placed on the rung of animals in the ladders of life; further demeaning the human element of a persons spirit. Blurring the lines between help and humiliation. As we near our destination an oasis springs up and the killing fields seem only like a bad dream from the recent past. After witnessing the complexities of the evil man commits against fellow man, should I really be worried about the civilities of respect towards some hungry people in a park in America? The line of thought has drawn back quickly, as many will ignorantly and incorrectly reason the inhumane treatment of others by degrees of severity. I’m shaken from the reminiscent thoughts…[This is an exerpt from a larger story I had been working on for the “hungry people in the park” comment to make sense in the last paragraph the charachter is referring to an episode he saw before the trip explained here, where good people in America brag about feeding the homeless as they toss the food on the ground of a park and watch them chase after it like birds.][I have been appreciating the complexities of words lately more. See the musician has the instrument sounds and their voice to help convey the emotion of their stories, the actor has his expressions and inflections to aid in the same manner, but to simply write something that convey the same feeling with just words is amazing and difficult at the same time to the risk of being “too” overly dramatic] -- source link

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