I wish I could write a hopeful story. One that lifts you up. That you can hold on to when you’re struggling to see how this world could possibly move forward. A story to read in the spring sun, surrounded by the first blooming trees.
I wish I could say: it will be okay. That one day, we will truly understand how much we need each other. That there is more than enough space for everyone. That it is beautiful and enriching to meet people who, at first glance, seem nothing like us—until we realize how untrue that is. That, at our core, we are the same.
I wish so much that the angry men making decisions—decisions that are, let’s say it out loud, criminal, evil—would disappear. Because whatever they say or do, it only destroys, shatters, is unacceptable.
I wish so much that no one would ever have to flee, for any reason. And if they must, that they would be welcomed when they arrive. Welcomed, given rest after their dangerous journey. Not, as happens now, forced into a filthy, overcrowded container—heavily pregnant, with children, a husband, another family with a baby.
I wish so much that people would care. That they would care about what is happening.
I wish so much that we would not only express opinions, write, and speak up—but that we would act.
Because if we take action en masse, if we say: this cannot, must not continue like this—
Then, we keep hope alive.
If we look at the people who are already taking action, whether here, on Lesbos, in the Netherlands, or anywhere else, and then ask ourselves: Hey, what can I do?
Then, yes, then we have a hopeful story. Because that is where it begins. That is the foundation. In that one question: What can I do? And then doing it. Alone or together. Sometimes with the desperation of last resort. But still.
That is where something begins.
Among the blooming trees in the spring sun.
with Luiza Vinhal,Lily Davies
