Dear Khodayar, again I take up my pen to write to you. I
have to tell you that I read your words, I pay attention to you and I
understand you. Your tears are not useless to me, they are beautiful to me.
They are precious. You have taken me with you from the village where you were
born to the bush camp where you ended your life. You are an Hazara and you are
a refugee; you are full of human dignity and you were born free. You spent your
life to stay free. You are an Australian and a citizen of the sea. You are the
traveller from the mountains who must take his chance on the ocean.
It is in the hearts of people that our boat will be wrecked
or saved, not amidst the salt waves. Your death is like a mystery that must be
solved and I am the survivor who must redeem this. They say that the dead have
no voice. So why do your words become more and more compelling and urgent each
day that passes after your death? Water tastes different to me now that you are
gone. Love Stephen
No comments:
Post a Comment