Let me tell you the healing story of a country that was for a long time suffering from an illness. This disease has killed his children, broken his families, and shattered his culture and his ideology.
I’ve never visited my country by the time he was fighting this deadly disease, I wasn’t even born. But every once in a while a heavy heart comes, and describes to me my sick country.
All the stories I was told didn’t carry words in them, they were just looks full of terror, sadness, madness, fear, and mostly anger and rage. The stories I’ve heard were of a dad that killed his neighbor, and a neighbor who killed a son, and a son who killed an artist, and an artist who got killed by freedom. And they’ve told me that my country was fighting every day, every night. Oh, the night! They said to me, as the night comes by, my country counted how many of his beloved he had lost today, and prayed the lord, the make the counting brief tomorrow.
Ten years, three thousands, six hundred and fifty days of prayers and fear.
Ten years after, my country got out of the hospital with a rage to live, to love, to give, and to be free. A rage that his youth inherited. A youth who sings the song of the dead artist, who reads the poems of an exiled poet, who defends the ideas for which people died last night, who raises a flag which was stained with blood and tears!
It’s the story of a country who loves life because it was once taken away from him.
It’s the story of a country’s healing process, and for me it’s the bravest fight and the most honorable.
From a Patriotic Soul.