Four feet hit the ground. Walking in circles through gulleys till bumping up a new wall built to stop the traffic and act as part of a new home. Back again and then looking through passageways with more space, but not too big so that every step means stepping up and away from motorcycles. Praying. Voices crying out to the God Who Hears. I walk first though I am older. Pedestrian Etiquette ranks high on safety value but low on cultural understanding acquisition. Male first, always, for safety, for leading. Then if two women are together than younger first older second. Always walk with the oncoming traffic at your back. Never shoulder to shoulder unless you are two men and your holding hands in a friendship sort of way. Listen for noises behind you. The little old man with his long beard lightly hissing because he wants to give you wide berth as he passes. It seems rude, his noise, but he is giving respect. Giving honor.
I always pray for eyes to see what God sees. I always see death. Always. Or hear it in the wailing of a widow at her window over the graveyard. Always.
Yesterday I saw the slitted eyes of the ruffians the glory of oppression, power in their faces. Rocks flying, giggles cackling, we turned the corner and two bony dying puppies floundered in the garbage and sewage. We walk on. The street was full of adults, full of people, full of other pariah dogs and no one spoke, no one stopped, no one even registered this lack of mercy. I could not trust my words to be right and my anger to be just. The boys were in a pack and were bigger than the usual tiny scrawny boys. I was not facing the boys of my neighborhood whose mothers I know. I did not stop. I did not speak. I was silent.
I'm not here to fight for the plight of wild dogs that roam the street and lick up the blood flowing from under the butcher window. But I am here to speak about mercy. Yesterday I felt I failed in some way. I'm still thinking about what might have been said that could have given food for thought to those boys who will grow up to be men. Teenagers like the ones I saw throwing rocks at the local crazy man. Taunting him, willing him to fight back. Holding back mercy.
Have mercy Lord.
I always pray for eyes to see what God sees. I always see death. Always. Or hear it in the wailing of a widow at her window over the graveyard. Always.
Yesterday I saw the slitted eyes of the ruffians the glory of oppression, power in their faces. Rocks flying, giggles cackling, we turned the corner and two bony dying puppies floundered in the garbage and sewage. We walk on. The street was full of adults, full of people, full of other pariah dogs and no one spoke, no one stopped, no one even registered this lack of mercy. I could not trust my words to be right and my anger to be just. The boys were in a pack and were bigger than the usual tiny scrawny boys. I was not facing the boys of my neighborhood whose mothers I know. I did not stop. I did not speak. I was silent.
I'm not here to fight for the plight of wild dogs that roam the street and lick up the blood flowing from under the butcher window. But I am here to speak about mercy. Yesterday I felt I failed in some way. I'm still thinking about what might have been said that could have given food for thought to those boys who will grow up to be men. Teenagers like the ones I saw throwing rocks at the local crazy man. Taunting him, willing him to fight back. Holding back mercy.
Have mercy Lord.
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