Their Ship Runneth Over

Human Tsunami

They keep coming, thousands of terrorized women, children, men, young and old, risking their lives to cross the unforgiving Mediterranean. Every year tens of thousands come from all parts of the Middle East and Africa to arrive in Italy, and just last week another overcrowded fishing trawler sank to the bottom of the sea carrying over 300 people on deck, in the brig, trapped in their wish for a safer, more dignified life.

Then more than a hundred bodies washed up on the shores of southern Greece, not making it alive to an Italian shoreline. Last year over 100,000 refugees poured into Italy half alive. Living here we are confronted with  these tragedies daily, whether on the news or witnessing stories first hand. I’m not sure why so much newstime is being used for a few wealthy businessmen in a submersible wanting to adventure down for the thrill of getting a peek into the Titanic when hundreds of  other humans are sharing the same airless fate for very different reasons. Why would one human story be more worthy than another?

In our immediate lifetime there will be severe demographic changes on our planet, not because of climate change, but because the world is full of people yearning to live free, away from inhuman brutality. We as individuals can’t stop this tsunami of change, but we can at least be aware of our good fortune if we are on the lucky side of a comfortable shore. And maybe we can live humbly enough to open our ears and hearts to those surviving, coming up for air.

For Sausan

I held out my hands to you,
each finger holding a word
I answered through your stare.
You held them tightly
then broke the silence –
I’ve lost everything.
 
I knew from your eyes,
soaked black under the scarf that
covered your unrelenting pain,
that you thanked me. 
You thanked me!
How can I thank you, dear Sausan?
 You gave my life a different light
through your hands, holding mine.
You separated me from the tyranny
of a world gone mad. 
You held my hands tightly
and wept, never leaving
the link of our eyes’ path.
I knew then, that no decisions
from insane men,
nor missiles’ wails,
could ever break the power
of a woman’s stare,
still alive to breathe the loss 
and the love of lives 
no longer there
but ever so present
in the grip of your hands.