Saturday November 14, 2015
They are walking, all the people on the road today, on the road to the sea, the Mediterranean sea, walking from a camp to the shore to a boat. Into the boat, a boat with too many people, onto the sea, cold, a little sick from the motion of waves, scared of what’s behind them in the places they fled, the dust and despair of their lost, annihilated homes; and scared of the waters ahead, so many dead and drowned on the way, and they grieve it all. They grieve news of their enemy, murderous and amok in the streets they long for, the living streets of Europe where they hope to find shelter, to find their humanity again, to sleep without fear. In this boat, on this sea they can’t sleep, they hold the ones they love, or hold themselves among strangers if they have no one left, no loved one to share the journey as day turns to night, but as long as the boat is moving there is hope, which is all they search for, only that.
They are walking, all the children on the road tonight, on the roads through Mexico, walking alone, some walking without shoes toward the northern border, toward a country they imagine feeds its children well—