December 5th, 2011. Kabul.



Photographed by Massoud Hosaini, 05/12/11.



While many of us struggled to decide what t.v show to watch while consuming dinner, or felt overwhelmed by deadlines and expectations, a young girl screamed for the failure of the human race to protect her humanity. Though I hate to put words into her mouth, it's undeniable that this girl is in shock, in horror, in a moment of hell only some of us are ever put through. December 5, 2011, Kabul, Afghanistan. Monday. I'd just finished my monologue presentations the Friday prior. Two weeks left of class. Quite literally in my case. All my worries and fears at that time, about performing, about my skills and capabilities, my future, were all perfectly valid. I am no less worldy or compassionate for being so concerned about my own life. It's my responsibility to care about the struggles and concerns that structure my world. Nonetheless, how shockingly trivial it all is in comparison to the image above. A small pile of even smaller bodies, and whatever ideals of peace and togetheness that existed within those bodies, shattered. That's what I imagine it to be. But I'm just another priviledged Westerner projecting some vague semblances of humanity onto some atrocity, continents away. Sure, in a greater sense, we're all of the same race, the same heart, and all injustice affects everyone of us. In our day to day lives however, how much do even the most grotesque acts directly affect us? The world very literally keeps turning. Life stops for no one, belongs to no one, is here for all and every experience equally. It has no preferences, no biases. Life is here to be lived by all that care to breathe, grow, be touched by sunlight and one day, be held by death.

There's a little girl in a pink sweater drinking milk from a green Starbucks straw, a few tables away. Parents in tow, speaking a language I can't quite place. Dutch, maybe German. The girl is tiny. Her older sister comes to her, pink mittens attached to the sleeves of her jacket. I want desperately to create some bridge between the children in front of me and the children in the photo, but perhaps there just isn't one. These are completely different samples of humanity. Their realities are astonishingly different. Their trials incomparable, their tears shed for disappointments of staggeringly different proportions. Sure, our similarities across landscapes, whether geographical or culturally constructed, are remarkable, but our differences are what give our experiences shape and definition, and by virtue of this, some structures are easier to live in than others.

The children in front me, now gone home, will most likely never face such brutal cruelty laid bare in front of them. Those in the photograph, who are alive, will forever be marked by the barbaric slaughter they once witnessed, and perhaps, will continue to witness.

And that's just the way it is. Suffering distributed in a seemingly senseless, random pattern. Religious fanatics will argue otherwise, stating that the belief in a false god, or the inability to appease the right one, will cause well deserved waves of horror. Economists and poltical scientists will offer statistics and equations, historical imperatives and current societal phenomena, to account for the state of the world. Artists will strive to extrapolate meaning from the chaos. I cannot speak to what all the various other factions of people will do, think, or feel. I have a hunch that most will wince, or sigh, and move on. Those responses are fine. They're the most that, in many circumstances, can be done. I'm not advocating for apathy or for distancing ourselves from the suffering of others. I'm saying it's important to recognize the scope of human experience, and to attempt to reconcile the immense incomprehensibility of it all, the potential futility of it all, with the desire to improve in whatever small ways we can, the landscapes we inhabit.

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First draft. I felt very compelled to write about this image, though as of now I'm not sure what I want the reader to take away, or rather what exactly I want to say. Perhaps I really shouldn't say anything at all, and let the brutality speak for itself.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.