Frodo: I can’t do this, Sam.
Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it‘s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.
Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam?
Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.
(Lord of the Rings II: The Two Towers)
—
I have stopped keeping track of the numbers.
If it’s already been said, then let my words serve as emphases; if it hasn’t, then let them serve as truths — It can happen to you.
It can happen to me.
406 dead in a span of a month, the last time I checked. Most – if not all – termed “alleged,” “suspected,” “perhaps,” “maybe,” “could be.” Most – if not all – termed “collateral damage.” The people, they say, need to be taught a lesson. The people, they say, can only learn through fear.
The people, they forget, are not replaceable. The world has no escape buttons for when the damage becomes greater, no backspaces for when children realise their parents are not going home, no refresh buttons for when dead bodies litter the streets, serving as reminders for everyone on their way home that nothing lasts.
—
“Ingat,” my mom would use to tell me every morning when she’d drop me off at school. A ruffle of my unkempt hair, a quick kiss to my cheek, and a reminder to move quickly, and I would be ready to face the day. “Take care,” she would say, in lieu of “Good bye,” and I would.
“Ingat,” I would tell my friends as I leave their parties, or as they leave mine. “Ingat,” I would tell classmates who would drop me off at home, a word infused with all kinds of feelings — appreciation, gratitude, a hope that they will be safe wherever they are, especially when they are far away from my sight.
“Ingat,” I would utter when a loved one leaves the door, a bid of farewell mixed with a silent prayer that they come back home alive and well.
Now, however, “ingat” has become more precious. Now, however, there’s no knowing that however much they keep safe, they will be. Now, however, “ingat” is a silent plea to the heavens, a silent prayer for life. “Come back to me,” it means. “Don’t let them take you,” it suggests. “Don’t leave me, please,” it volunteers.
No one knows how it is to stay safe anymore.
—
I have never been afraid of death.
I have never been afraid of living either.
But things are different now. Living has become harder, as we all collectively carry the grief that surrounds us all.
—
The world makes my heart ache everyday.
It reminds me that everyday, family members get separated from each other, a mother loses her job, a father succumbs to violence. Everyday, a child loses a parent, a parent loses his child. Everyday, thousands of people get displaced. Everyday, hundreds get discriminated. Everyday, people lose lives.
It reminds me that bad things happen everyday — that terrorists attack, that innocent lives get decimated, that civilians lose their rights, that people lose their hope.
The world wrings my heart out and tires it out everyday.
—
There are many things the world knows: peoples’ hopes, their dreams and aspirations, their fears. The world knows about peoples’ secrets, peoples’ desires. It knows about their beliefs, their failures.
It knows many things, but there is one thing it does not yet understand: the heart is capable of healing.
When I was younger, my dance teacher would always remind me that the best way to strengthen the muscle is to use it always. Walking leads to stronger legs, lifting leads to stronger arms.
Loving, to stronger hearts.
And maybe my heart is tired, and maybe it is downtrodden and feeling helpless. Maybe it needs to rest and take a break; maybe it needs fresh air, a new ribcage, a new life.
Maybe it is wrought out and dried up, maybe it is aching, maybe it is pulled in places, plucked in some, pricked and torn and broken.
But broken hearts heal. Broken hearts know what it’s like to be left alone, in the open, unwanted. Broken hearts know how to mend. Broken hearts know how to love. Broken hearts know how to forgive. Broken hearts know how to start again.
My heart gets broken everyday, but if it means having the drive to fight for what’s right, the passion to live for others, and the fiery desire to love even if it hurts, especially when it hurts, until it hurts, then my God, I hope the world breaks my heart even more.
Of perpetual finds 