Rarer than Black Opal

If there is one thing to be wished for, it is “humanity”, the most vital and forgotten word.

Humanity had already died before the time of the Crusades. Humanity had already died before the Thirty Years’ War. Humanity had already died before Hitler proclaimed: “Winners are not judged. Nobody ever checks whether they lied or not”.

Humanity had already died before the time of the Frontier Wars and the Black War; and it never revived, even though the “human” continued to exist. There was no explanation for humanity before the time of 13th century Persian peot and Islamic scholar Rumi, as he desperately dredged the sea of uncertainty to regain the most unreachable black opal.

Back to the continent; it is not about land but about foreignness. A segment of the survivors, like an alien nation, live on their so-called “own land”. The pain is like the taste of saltiness from teardrops in my mouth; at the same time it is as bitter as gall.

The rich smell of a blackfella’s durry in the most central point of the city was not as offensive as the sharp smell of the bloodstained hands in one of the greatest cover-ups in human history.

If being a “human being” requires having two eyes, a mouth and two ears, is there any difference between a human and an austere sculptural portrait? Perhaps we are all dead and this is the other world’s explanation of humanity. It is not about invasion; it is about being a witness to your peers’ blood running over the land, their land.

I am dejected by people. The ones who think if they were born again they would live differently, they would make fewer mistakes and would compensate for their misdeeds.

It is not true. If we had the courage to live differently, if we had the power to change and be changed, if we were up for making rather than destroying, we would start now.

I dream of and for humanity.

[Sareh Dareshoori reflects on life after moving here from Iran.]

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