Every day, I’m appalled, disheartened, and sickened by the glimpses of stories I see in the news about families being separated at the border.
A large part of me resists even looking, but I can’t help but see the headlines, images, and videos when I get on social media to take care of business.
To resist – to turn a blind eye – feels wrong, yet reading, watching, and listening, leaves me feeling helpless and hopeless. It’s like watching your house burn to the ground and know that the raging flames are bigger than you and all the other people who’ve gathered to try and put out the fire.
I think about the stories. The stories of the families, the parents, the kids – some babies – and the enduring consequences these separations bring to them, their cultures, and our culture. These separations have set in motion the ripple effects of broken spirits and smothered souls that will reverberate far, far into the future.
The ignorance of the powers that be around trauma and separation are astounding – they clearly don’t see the deeply damaging impact of their actions. Or they don’t care.
It’s likely both.
I find myself fantasizing. I want to tell these border stories. I want to tell all of them. I want to meet these families and individuals, talk to them, and tell their stories. I want to put their faces and voices, sadness and heartbreak, dread and trauma front and center…
And then I think about how the impossibility of one single person without the means to make that a reality stands in the way. And I think about how it wouldn’t likely make a difference because we are in a state of such upheaval and disrepair, that any form of retribution on those who have created this atrocity – and continue to nurture it – as well as all the other atrocities that continue to unfold, feel beyond impossible.
And I feel helpless and hopeless all over again.
I don’t know the point of this post, other than to say that I feel this way. I don’t think I’m alone, but it sure feels that way.