People look at me like I’m a sweet child when I say I want to save the world. They do it condescendingly, because they think I’m too innocent to realize it’s impossible to do. They think I haven’t seen enough of the world, they think my ambitions will change once I grow up, that I’ll decide to be one of those lawyers that earns a lot instead of the Human Rights lawyer I’ve aspired to be for the last 10 years. And, facing those reactions, I always smile and explain that, while I know the world is screwed up, I’ll try my best to change it anyways, and that even if I can only change the smallest thing, it’s enough for me. If I can make some lives better, it’s enough for me. That things will never change if everybody convinces themselves that there’s nothing to do – that there’s nothing they can do. And I really believe it with all my heart, and I’m willing to fight my entire life for a lost cause, to prove that I can change the world – not the whole world, but a part of it.
But then there are days like this. There’s waking up at 12 AM and reading those news and feeling sick in my stomach, and wanting to cry, and texting all my Parisian friends to make sure they’re ok. It’s thinking of those people that I don’t talk to anymore, but who shaped my life, and hoping they’re ok. And then it’s thinking about how fucking ridiculous it is that the world is reacting like this to those hundred deaths in Paris while ignoring the thousands of other deaths that occur every fucking day because of that same. fucking. war. Because those people are dying far from us, and they’ve been dying for so long that we’re used to it, that we don’t give a flying fuck. And people are becoming more racist by the minute, some are finding a foundation for their hatred, they can finally say that this is why we shouldn’t help the refugees, that they’re all evil and terrorists. Not realizing (or perhaps not caring) that those refugees are fleeing from similar – yet hundred times worse – situations to the one in Paris. Not realizing that those refugees are victims of the exact same war they’re so afraid of.
And on days like this, I look at myself, at my hopes and dreams and ambitions, and I’m one of those people who thinks that I’m a sweet innocent naive child. Because on days like this, I doubt there’s anything that could possibly be saved.
that they all – not only the Parisians – may either find or rest in peace