One line smudged by dots across the treeless landscape. Gassed and left upon the dust to become one with it. Hate breeds death once more and the earth weeps. The need for control falls upon a people like a fist onto a desk and changes everything.
One line trudges. One line displaced. One line shuffles onward with heavy feet like stones working through the mud. Behind lies everything. Everything has passed. Ahead lies anything. Anything is now desirable. And, in one line, they are not alone. And perhaps that will be the key.
For where there is life there is hope. Even displaced to foreign lands one line, huddled and massed, can carry on in hope of return to a land healed and regrown. To return to homes abandoned and dilapidated, to be restored and renewed to a former glory of civilisation whose lungs were asphyxiated.
One line drawn around them, imprisoning in one lump the survivors. New homes that would be alien to anyone. Reliant on the care of others. Where there is life there is hope. A forced migration is unwelcome but it is better than death. Survival is the finest form of resistance. If, as one line, they can survive then the mustachioed man has not won, cannot win.
Yet one line lives on in limbo. Unable to really live until their lives are restored. Hope there may be, alone they are not, but without outside help they are stuck in makeshift homes in a foreign land.
One line trudges. One line displaced. One line shuffles onward with heavy feet like stones working through the mud. Behind lies everything. Everything has passed. Ahead lies anything. Anything is now desirable. And, in one line, they are not alone. And perhaps that will be the key.
For where there is life there is hope. Even displaced to foreign lands one line, huddled and massed, can carry on in hope of return to a land healed and regrown. To return to homes abandoned and dilapidated, to be restored and renewed to a former glory of civilisation whose lungs were asphyxiated.
One line drawn around them, imprisoning in one lump the survivors. New homes that would be alien to anyone. Reliant on the care of others. Where there is life there is hope. A forced migration is unwelcome but it is better than death. Survival is the finest form of resistance. If, as one line, they can survive then the mustachioed man has not won, cannot win.
Yet one line lives on in limbo. Unable to really live until their lives are restored. Hope there may be, alone they are not, but without outside help they are stuck in makeshift homes in a foreign land.
Note: Inspired by an art exhibition held at the Imperial War Museum in 2008 called Displaced by the artist Osman Ahmed which is reported on here and here with videos here.
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