Hot, dry wind
over parched desert land,
swirling up sand,
stinging eyes and partly exposed faces,
mainly of women and children
cueing for their daily rations.
A sea of tents,
as far as the eye can see.
Makeshift homes of refugees;
once large families
with a desire to prosper
and to give a future to their offspring.
To offer shelter
to their aging parents.
To enjoy status
in their communities.
War tore them asunder;
killing, raping, maiming
indiscriminately.
Presently,
reduced to mere beggars.
A perceived burden.
A political football.
Stateless.
Homeless.
Their dignity left behind.
After the numbness of grief,
what is left
but blame?
Easy targets
for ideologies of hatred.
Usually,
towards ‘meddlers from the West’.
They came with guns and tanks
and a self-righteous demeanour.
They are usually the ones
now offering charity,
expecting gratitude.
Why not bite the hand
that once held a gun?
When hatred prevails
the truth becomes irrelevant.
Whose truth anyway?
The war may have been left behind
but is now raging
in wounded human hearts.
As quick as it arose,
the wind has died down.
The relentless heat
causes tents to dance
on waves of sand.
Pia Horan, 29 September 2013
Thanks, Pia
Trevor