Human Suffering: Reflections from Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires Travel Blog

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Two years ago in July I stood in the rally grounds of Hitler in Nuremberg, Germany and walked down the magnificently wide stone avenues that lead to the still incomplete coliseum whose grand stones were extracted from the earth by the hands of the Jews, Homosexuals, Gypsies, and Nazi resistors. This year, I am sleeping in a country still recovering from the wounds of injustice, whose children still know not their identity. And I am terrified by the global phenomenon of the twentieth century who brought to the face of this earth, not a new
concept, but one painted in images I know and in feelings I understand.

Something inside of me is inextricably drawn to the plight and suffering of the human condition. But more specifically, to the single individual on whose face rests the expression of fear and whose heart struggles fleetingly with hope. I feel that suffering, and it pains me. 

What worries me more than the pain I feel is that I know my pain should be magnified. I know that when walking the streets of Atlanta I feel the pain of injustice brought by racial tension and misguided social framework, but that my pain should be infinitely more intense—I live in a country who sews her scars not most recognizably among her population, not on her land, but rips them across the seas in places most citizens could scarce identify on a map.

As a citizen of the world and as a living, loving being on planet Earth, I am far more callused than I should be about injustice—though I know I am far more conscious than most.

Why is it that I can travel to another country and read transparent accounts of the history of her people and the pains endured under wrong hands while in my own country, for which I carry full responsibility, I am denied access to the truth of my government’s actions on foreign lands? I am continually reminded of how lucky I am to have the written ability to protest, object to, and oppose my government as it is inherently mine. My next breath and brainwave, however, force me to question just how much freedom I do have in this moment, and how that is changing.

 In many ways, my heart is for this country, whose people still believe that with few tools more than the voice of the people, the political will can be effected, for I know that in my own country, it doesn’t matter how loudly you scream or how large your crowd if your pockets contain only bus fare.         

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