Susan LaffertyThis past week, I sit numb. Shaken. Shocked by sheer brutality.
And cry out for the ones who can’t breathe.
Weep for those with necks slammed against asphalt under the knee of racism. Relentless, insidious racism. Again and again.
The snake slithers. Just beneath the surface of society. Often hidden in the dark. Feeding pride and arrogance. Fear. Prejudice.
Injustice.
The journals come in all sizes. Most have survived extremes. Dust and drought. Mold and humidity. It shows.
They hold my life records. The common, daily occurrences of a cross-cultural life. The ongoing spiritual battle.
And the struggles of our children in the midst of it all.
Constant illnesses. Anxieties. Hurt. Fears.
In dust and drought. Mold and humidity.
The art was hidden by the crowds that walked through Mangal Bazaar that day in Islamabad, June 1997. Then I saw it. One particular painting drew me in. Maybe it was the camels. Or the street scene reminiscent of Karachi. In the mix of muted and bright, the blue dome of the mosque caught my eye.