All my life I have thought, read and cried over the injustice in the world. I have read history and theories, gone to demonstrations. I have cried about entire generations of Palestinian children who will live their life struggling with post-traumatic syndrome, about poor people in Egypt who commit suicide because they can not feed their children, about Romanian gypsies who are burned alive by mobs, about so many who are dead inside because of what they have seen, or what they themselves have done.
But I think I am only starting to understand it. It started to dawn on me just a few days ago, around the time when they unleashed the thugs into Tahrir Square. The damage runs deep, so very deep. The psyche of a whole nation has been ruined. Intelligent people say that we are not ready for democracy, as if we were small naughty children. Others bury their head in the sand, refusing to see what is glaring in front of them. In panic for what the future may bring they force themselves to believe that the intentions of the vilest of the vile are pure. But what hit me right in the stomach today was the story a friend told me of a group of young activists she knew that have lost their faith, the last thing they had left, because of too much torture and humiliation. They were energetic and hardworking, smart with leadership qualities, and now they are nothing. Nothing is left, they are empty. Mission accomplished.
These kinds of stories are not new to me, neither is my emotional reaction, it just feels like I understand it now. The crimes of the dictator and his henchmen run so deep that they have changed the personality, the mentality, the thoughts and faith of a people. So deep is the damage that I fear that there will not be enough strength to finish what is started. How can we forgive that? How can we forget that? How can people trust them?
Today is a sad day. Tomorrow will be better. My brother slept under a tank last night, so un mundo mejor must be possible.