The community’s pain and exhaustion is concealed briefly as family members and victims assemble to greet new comers and curious foreign guests. This is Acteal, Mexico. A place lying on the edge of oblivion, in the middle of history and found through fingers tracing a map only after the massacre that stole its name. The mother’s tired eyes speak to the ordeal her life has embodied these past years…the skepticism and swallowed rage, the overwhelming heaviness of prolonged injustice. Life has taking on one purpose; to serve as proof of what happened here. Years ago when mothers fell and the ground turned cold, prayers were silenced and man’s fear scarred again. I listened to the little girl sing, wondered what noise bullets make… Does each bullet take on a different pitch as it sores through space or is it that sound is only created when its purpose is fulfilled, its destiny met? Her bullet left her alive, miraculously! How can it be that she carries it there, behind the same dark eyes that would later search for meaning among broken bodies? The little girl gives it new life; it will make the sound her voice makes, her song a collective birth for those who were in need of new memories.
No comments:
Post a Comment