Is found in the place where tears are shed. That deep place which permits the heart to speak the words that the mouth is unable to formulate.
We told our Kids in War, our Kids in Hope a story. Only it was not a story, nor a fable, nor a legend, nor a figment of the imagination from Never Never Land. It was history that is both past and present and future all unfolding at the same time. Here and now. That which had marked us for ever.
We did not tell our Kids in War who are becoming Kids who Love a story with a happy ending where the heroes ride off in a white horse into the sunset and everyone lives happily ever after. Last lick of ice cream as the credits roll type story. Sigh of happiness as the blanket is tucked in. No, not those stories.
We told our Kids in War, a story about war. A one-sided evil war waged on the innocent. We told them a story about the night when sleep ended and the decimation of all that was, and all that had been, of life and civilization, began. When life was snatched away and death ruled and laughed with delight at violence and bloodshed.
We told our Kids in War about bloodshed, about gunfire, about bombing, about separation. We told them a story which they did not know yet somehow deep inside they totally did know. Their young hearts and small stomachs groaned in pain. Hot tears fell silently on green plastic tables. Unheard but observed.
" I don't care! " Harry yelled at them. " I've seen enough, I want it to end. I want out!" " You do care" said Dumbledore, " You care so much you feel that you will bleed to death with the pain of it."( J.K. Rowling. Harry Potter). We all bled that day, it was akin to lacerating an open wound. With the blood and the pus pouring out, healing began. For us all.
" It is easier to say" My tooth is aching" than it is to say " My heart is broken " (C.S. Lewis. The Problem of Pain). On that day we allowed ourselves to hurt together, openly without shame or fear. We allowed our pain to become visible and tangible. Our pain came with luggage labels , Shingal, Mosul, Aleppo. Places where hearts were broken into bleeding shards. War City is yet another name. It's place which is becoming a symbol of liberation of hearts, a place where we struck treasure and hearts were healed. Our included. The tears of our Kids in War, washed our weary souls. Our tears cleansed theirs.
I permit myself to look back just a few months. To pause, recall. To see the land we inherited. For what exactly we waged war, and waged it hard. The neglected land that is now our Rainbow Zone. That place of Hope in War.
I permit myself to cautiously smile. Breathing Life into Dead Places. Little did we know how the soil of our lives and hearts would be turned upside down .Little did we know the affect of pure oxygen when it enters the dead soil. Little did we know.And I guess, little do we know.
To be continued.