Picture Credit (John Moore/Getty Images)
“…if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices.
“we must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere.”
“When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must- at that moment- become the center of the universe.”
Over the last few weeks, I read the news. I saw the pictures. I agreed with the outrage expressed in op-ed’s, evening news and twitter feeds. I shared and voiced my thoughts and opinions on the heinous actions of my government, separating in traumatic fashion children from their parents. My thinking brain has been shocked, horrified and outraged and did not have to stretch far to appreciate the parallels to the Japanese internment camps.
But my heart remained protected, wrapped up and insulated using the same tools I use to manage the emotional burden of caring for the critically ill.
And then I heard the tapes from Pro Publica.
I can only imagine the trauma that those children and their parents are enduring. I’m sure it falls far short from reality. Although I cannot draw a direct comparison, I do know how I felt when I was separated from my child in a way I never hoped to be.
I ached in a way I had never ached before. The weight of worry in every breath. Fear of the unknown fueled racing thoughts. My vision blurry and tired from holding back tears. My hand constantly drawn to my chest near my heart, pulled by a force from my core. A place I have felt only a few times before. This place inside, beneath skin and bone, ached with such weight and depth that it often forced me to the floor in attempt to ride out the waves of pain rolling through me.
I was overwhelmed and felt helpless. Yet I knew where my child was and who they were with. I knew those people cared.
Now, imagine you’re five years old in a foreign country with a foreign language. Cold concrete floors partitioned by chain link fences all around. No parent to squeeze hard and cling to. No family member to hug and hold, to feel their strength and resolve as an answer to your overwhelming fear. Only uniformed strangers with weapons at their side or tin foil blankets to turn to for any potential warmth.
There is no insulation from their cries. And there shouldn’t be. If you have not heard the tape, I ask you to listen.
Immoral. Unconscionable. Heartbreaking. Traumatic. Terrorizing. Those words, as strong as they are, are insufficient to describe this current horror. There has already been too much rhetoric and not enough action. So I am going to do what I can do.
I am writing. I am donating. I am calling. I will vote in September and will help as many others in my community and neighboring states to do the same.
There are plenty of organizations that need your help. There is a need for lawyers, translators and donations. Here is a link to a website at SLATE written by Dahlia Lithwick and Margo Schlanger. They are continuously updating the page with places that are helping in this battle.
Not much more to write. It’s time for me and my family to act. I’m asking you to act as well and share what you are doing. I’ll be sharing here over the next few days what my family chooses to do.
Together, we can be better than this.