Guilty Until I Prove Myself Innocent
There is a place where the earth is red, from swallowing too much blood, from being watered by it. There is a place where desert flowers are watered not by morning dew, but by morning tears, for every morning brings forth a new horror. They say there are necessary evils, humans though, should never forget that evil, is just that evil.
In a house with a beautiful lawn, paintings on the wall, and breakfast on the table, a child giggles, draws in a fresh breath of air and looks to today with promise. Under a tree a child forgets the essence of crying, it serves not relief nor for comfort, one world different people.
I cannot image the pain of man who watches another man take his young child for a women, or the horror in the mind of a child who sees his/her mother dying, or raped, or has her breast cut off and arms too. Mother is God in the eyes of a child, I figure it must be the hardest thing to see her die. I cannot imagine the despair in a mans heart, who cannot protect his family, who cant feed them, who has to hide with them in barrows like a rat. I cannot imagine the conscience of a man, whose bullets fly through deserted play grounds in Durfor, rip through toddlers and their dolls. A man who’s cheque is signed with the tip of a pen, for his factory to mass produce bullets, bullets that never kill evil, nor stop wrong, bullets that murder and kill, maim and scar the innocent. I guess its a necessary evil, to sell guns and ship bombs. I cannot imagine his conscience, but I figure it clear, besides his kids live in the house with the nice lawn, and paintings on the wall, breakfast on the table, he should be doing pretty well. I can imagine his neighbour the one who holds no gun to anyone’s head, his conscience too should be clear. His kids are safe there is no gunfire to fear and the world “is a beautiful place.”
I have broken a toe before, I know the pain of it, still I cant imagine the pain of a women who has her breast cut off, the one who lies dying hearing only the cries of a baby she cant feed, sing to her, her last song. I can imagine the joy of a bride marring, with the biggest diamond shining on her finger, love must sure feel good glittering long past the darkest hour. I figure im just bitter because I sit on the other side of the fence, and see man with no schooling, man who cant make guns armed to the teeth by man who call them inhuman and savage, remind me again where that starts.
Often those that start wars stand there hands clean, air in their lungs, and live to tell more hypocritical speeches and preach to us of the necessary evils. Their children play, and giggle in laughter, out on the green lawn to easy the guilt on their conscience. A man feeds his children from the labour that kills another man, a bullet kills irregardless of its shape of form.
Im sure a child, still to spell his name will find comfort in those that can explain their innocents. I, gun or no gun know like millions I stand guilty, of finding my little corner in the world to hide and pretend to me that its okay that my conscience is clear and no bullet flies past my window. A question haunts me, if I lived next to a graveyard full of my family and friends or lived through life limbless, would I want me to find a little corner to hide, and pretend the world to be a beautiful place. Silver bullets murder innocent souls, because the devil stands behind the barrel of a gun and angels hide behind political "rightness" and in little corners of the world pretending all is bliss.
I saw Americans cry on 9/11 and thought to me, lose, death must hurt wherever, whomever. I see Iraqis, Afghans, Palestinians and I feel death must be painful whomever, wherever. I see them in the Congo, in the Durfor, in Chad and Zimbabwe I know it does hurt, no one wants to lose, no one wants death, not on their front door, yet we all want to win. I guess death is inescapable. It’s the one thing life promises us at birth. Still it amazes me how easily we pass it around. How easily we create little toys to bring it about, how easily it becomes explainable, acceptable once its moved from our door step. How heroes are not necessary as long as we don’t need serving.
There is a place where rain filters through to where a child sleeps, and gunfire rumbles through clouds of smoke like thunder. In that place every second is lived, every bit of space a whole world. Every child is a soldier, fighting a war, to live or to kill, with a gun or with a prayer. There is a place with pictures on the wall, no fence on boarders and dogs have health insurance, in that place some moments pass by without meaning, without no one noticing, time flies by when you having fun? In that place there is a reason why everything is everything and why something’s will never change.
Death births life, the poor bear the rich, the conflicted shoulder the comforted and death is explainable so long its not own your door and terrorists change face depending on whose uniform they put on. The rich play God, the poor play disciples and we raise monsters only to put them down and call ourselves heroes. All in all there are necessary evils, so we say, so long as they don’t follow us home, it cant be our kids, our mother or wives because then we couldn’t use the same explanation.
There is a place where the earth is red, from drinking too much blood, and a child kneels in the desert waiting to die, a vulture ever patient waiting to pick his eyes out, of course we can explain it, its not our child. I wonder how God clothes people, how he decides who gets to sell bullets and who gets to wear them to their grave, who gets to be black, or white or Asian, who gets to be rich, who becomes poor. May be in that hides the power for the weak to find strengths, and the corrupted repentance. I wonder how the big bang would explain to a child the necessary evils of one tribe totally cleansing another, the conscience of those that do and those that let it be done. Why a man would take a feeding breast from the mouth of a child only to cut it off, when he himself was fed by it. I can’t explain it to myself.
Wars liberate us physical but entrap us spiritually, till we all live like soldiers killing or being killed. Our souls plugged by fear and laziness are quick to find a reason to war. There is may be a reason why blood is concealed under skins of different shades, may be it was never meant to be spilt, at least not as easily.