she told me a story and when i heard it my mood swiftly changed from sadness to rage.

she told me of a woman who crossed the mountains that seperate syria from turkey, the border between hope and despair. the woman, along with her two sons, fell off a cliff and died.  if not instantly, then probably attacked and consumed by wild animals. no one, not a single soul in the group of refugees that traveled with her, looked back to see whether they could help her. all afraid of the borderguards they hunched their backs, did their prayers, to whatever God or gods they believed in, and continued with their journey to the West.

i cried when she told me. not only because three innocent human beings fell prey to the cruelty and inhumanity of our world, but also because this was not a unique tragedy, it is awefully common among people who seek the fruits of the western hemisphere.

they die crossing mountains.

they die of dehydration while crossing deserts.

they die while crossing oceans in fragile boats.

they die by the bullets from guards guarding their lands from these hords of starving and hopeless, barely, human beings.

then i got angry. very angry. i got angry at the people the young man traveled with, how could they have not reacted?

and her husband, who sent her away to danger in the pursuit of happiness, how thoughtless of him, did he not know the dangers, of course he did, how many BBCsomali reports are there on these incidents, plenty!

but in reality, the single soul that i got most angry with was myself.

i sat comfortably in my polstered leather chair, sipping some somali chai and heard, but refused to understand, the story.

i simply did not understand the audacity of hope.