She didn’t speak today.
When I asked, she mouthed Because of the children in Africa who can’t talk. And this made no sense to me. Why not all children who can’t speak? Why not all children in Africa?
Is it to recognize some sort of disease or disability?
No, mom. For the children in Africa who can’t talk.
I dropped her at the church,
where they would celebrate in fellowship
their small accomplishment,
large for their size,
to not speak for the day.
And there I was told.
Of children taken,
abducted and inducted
violence, drugs, warfare…
target practice.
And the rain poured down.
I am a mother.
My child, your child, children.
And I can’t understand.
I work hard
to give her a voice,
to teach her to speak her ideas,
to dance her rhythm,
to live out loud,
to not to be an Invisible Child.
And then,
light pierces darkness,
slicing through clouds,
and I follow.
I chase the sun.
Clouds move quickly,
light dapples the road,
and I chase it
around corners,
through neighborhoods,
over hills,
to this pasture…
In search of reason,
in search of hope,
in search of light,
I chase the sun.
Why
this helpless heart?
What can I offer?
I can’t be warrior for these children,
our children,
those who fade into shadows of darkness and fear,
becoming invisible to evil.
I can’t light their darkness
or defend their innocence.
I can’t teach them to speak,
loudly and clearly.
Or to dance with joy.
Why am I made to feel this
if I can’t affect it?
I want to shout.
I want to scream.
I want to be their voice.
What is my purpose?
To witness?
To witness.
My daughter hops into the car,
smiling ear to ear,
and tells me how,
at 8 o’clock,
they all
screamed loudly
together.
(credit)
Invisible Children: WHO WE ARE from INVISIBLE CHILDREN on Vimeo.
{It’s 4 minutes long. Please watch.}
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