• gmontcombroux

Hope

As I watch the news from Afghanistan and see those young bewildered children, memories I have tried to bury swim in front of my eyes.


Toddler, only two and a half feet tall, in the middle of the moving mass of people...

seeing legs,,, more legs... just a forest of legs...

can’t breathe... can’t move... gunfire...

Afghanistan?

No. June 1940, Éxode on the roads of France.

It isn’t really different.

Terrified people escaping violence, with the same fear inside their heart,

with the same hope it would be better over there, wherever over there may be.

Toddlers hear gunfire. They already know what it is... but they do not know its meaning.

They cry for a comfort that never comes... They turn inward where there is silence.

Lost on the road, in a vast world where, too young, they forget their names.

It was supposed to never happen again.

But it is... another mass of people... another forest of legs...

The ultimate sacrifice of terrified mothers, fear in their hearts...

They hand their little ones to strangers... to save them,

They hope...


Hope. You can’t see it. You can’t feel it. You can’t hear it. You can’t smell it. It is nothingness. It is an idea.


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