Tears of Wrath
Tears of Wrath
A couple of hours after the incidents in Paris, on Friday, 13 November 2015, I posted the following statement:
Two tears are running down those cheeks.
One for the victims.
*One for ourselves. *
I was lying. Those were not just two tears running down my cheeks. And those tears of wrath, of pure desperation, have not stopped until now. They are heavy and hot, burning my face and leaving marks that will change it forever.
Tears of wrath are running down my face.
Tears of wrath for the young journalists Guillaume D. and Mathieu H., whose age group I left three days ago when I turned 25.
Tears of wrath, when I look at the photograph of smiling Noemi Gonzalez, the 23-year-old design student who finished second on this year’s contest on food sustainability issues.
Tears of wrath for la señora Garrido, who got away, while her husband Juan Alberto, a 29-year-old engineer from Granada, remained trapped in the ‘Bataclan’.
Tears of wrath for the Algerian violinist Kheirddine Sahbi, who lost his life in the attacks.
Tears of wrath at the death of innocent human beings from Portugal, Britain, Tunisia, Chile, Belgium, Mexico and anywhere else. Tears of wrath at the death of more than 120 people – people like you and me.
People, who could have been writing these lines in my stead.
Tears of wrath at the one who wrote the statement on the news page of Da’esh, using the word blessed to describe the attack, praising the perpetrators and celebrating the deaths, invoking a god known to them only. A god, who would grant them the right to kill, thereby making them gods themselves.
Tears of wrath at the young man who was holding the AK-47, probably already thinking of a heaven only known to him, while his finger was pulling the trigger to stay there to murder indiscriminately – perhaps, for the first time in his life.
Tears of wrath at the ones who chose the sites, the ‘Bataclan’ concert hall, the terrace of the ‘Casa nostra’, the ‘Petit Cambodge’, the ‘Rue de Charonne’ or the ‘Stade de France’; knowing that what they would be attacking were *soft targets: *human beings without a helmet nor beret, unshielded with no means to react.
Tears of wrath at those who celebrate the murders and pronounce themselves in favour of such cruel violence.
People, like you and me, who lost their minds.
Tears of wrath for the personnel that is dealing with the aftermath of those horrors. For those who are cleaning the bloodshed and those collecting the fragments of what used to be bodies. For those who are spending every second of their lives trying to save the so-called casualties – victims who are so real in front of them, yet simple numbers far away.
Tears of wrath for the families of those they lost. Of those, that *we all *lost. And with whose deaths we lost a little bit of hope, a little bit of empathy, a little bit of love.
Tears of wrath, when Paris 2015 brings up memories of London 2005 and Madrid 2004; European metropolises that were hit by similar attacks of similar dimensions a couple of years ago.
By the way, does Turkey belong to Europe? Because if yes, then I just forgot to mention Ankara 2015, where two bombs killed over 100 people, injuring more than four times this number – just one month ago. How could I forget? How could *you *forget?
Tears of wrath for those who were forgotten. And tears for the fact that we forgot them.
Tears of wrath for those 60 who were attending a wedding in Amman almost precisely 10 years ago and those 164 who were killed in hotels, cinemas and cafés in Mumbai in November 2008. Why did we forget?
Tears of wrath for the more than 120 adults and children who lost their lives to a car bomb in northern Baghdad a couple of months ago.
Tears of wrath for more than 40 people who were killed by a twin bombing in Beirut on Thursday. Yes, on Thursday, 12 November 2015.
As you may imagine, the list could go on.
Tears of wrath for those who were forgotten. And tears for the fact that we forgot them.
Tears of wrath, when I heard the CNN reporter ask a man who had just escaped the ‘Bataclan’ whether the attackers ‘said anything in French or in Arabic’. Tears of wrath, when the man then responded that ‘no, I did not hear them say anything like ‘Allahu akbar’’.
Tears of wrath for ourselves. For us, who have become the default perpetrator of such bitter violence. We, who speak Arabic, wear beards and have names that are left crippled by tongues other than ours. Names, that have become synonyms for *islamist, extremist, criminal, terrorist. *
Tears of wrath for those seven members of the family of Omar Ismaïl Mostefaï who are in custody as I am writing these lines. Tears of wrath for his mother, who committed the crime of bearing him.
Tears of wrath for the fact that it is all going to get worse.
Tears of wrath, when François Hollande says what he has to say. Says, what all heads of state before him said when they were in situations like this. That they cannot be broken, that they will fight back, that they will seek revenge. Tears of wrath for the fact that we human beings are so weak in the face of evil.
Tears of wrath for the blind revenge that will cost even more innocent lives. *Over there. *
As we have seen, over there can be *here, *and there is nothing that distinguishes violence directed against innocent human beings – whether it is Paris, London or Boston or whether it is Amman, Baghdad or Beirut; whether the victims are Arab, European, African or East Asian; whether they are white, brown, yellow or purple.
If tragedies like these teach us one thing then it is not that we should be more afraid, more vigilant, more sceptical.
What tragedies like these teach us is *that we are all the same; *that we all bleed and cry and suffer in the light of evil and crime.
Let us not forget the most important thing that we have in common:
*Humanity. *
May humanity guide us now.