It is a night like any other. We are lying in bed watching a documentary about the famous photographer, Platon, who specializes in portraiture, mostly of celebrities and public figures.
He ends up in the Congo, photographing women who were victims of horrific sexual assault. As one of these terrorized women, whose rape produced a child, tells her story, I start to cry. Rape is cheaper than guns, so it is just part of the game in this war torn part of the world.
The show ends and I’m still crying, heaving sobs into my pillow and then into his chest. I don’t know why this particular theme has shaken me so hard and I’m usually pretty good at self-analysis. I am completely wrecked.
We are so sheltered here in our clean and comfortable bubble. When I see pictures and read about such atrocities it shocks me. It hurts me. I just can’t believe it. How we can be so cruel. And I don’t know what to do with the pain.
And I know, it’s everywhere in varying degrees–even on my own street probably there is some form of intolerable violence happening. Anger takes its outward expression. So much rage.
I donate money, but then what? How much money will be enough to stop the hurting? The cycle never ends. And the query remains…what to do with the pain.
I bookmark this feeling because it is so, so strong. But what it means is still a mystery.