The word "violence" derives, in part, from the word "vehemence," or to do something with passion. To me, this implies that in order to be violent, one must feel something so passionately within the depths of their soul, that they are intrinsically compelled to act upon those passions, hence the word "vehemence."
But to wake up every morning to the news that another city had been senselessly bombed, or that a driver of a truck filled with grenades plowed through a crowd, or that another 20 someone else's had been shot by another so-and-so -- there is absolutely no thought involved. There cannot possibly be because I refuse to believe that all human beings were designed with the intent to be each other's demise.
December 14, 2012: The country seemed to ripple like a raindrop on the surface of a pond at the loss of six adults and 20 children. Then in high school, I remember contacting my mom to make sure that my family, who lived within an hour's reach, was safe. My heart still breaks for those children.
November 14, 2015: Stumbling down the stairs to the first floor of my host family's home, I entered the kitchen to an atmosphere dense with the unusual silence of somber loss. The city of Cologne reeked of it. All of Europe even, was drenched in terror and doused with sadness. Hast du gehört? "Have you heard?" my host mother asked me, referring to the Paris attacks the night before. I had, and had stayed awake most of the night following the news and checking on friends' safety in the city and elsewhere. "Please let me know that you are safe," I sent the message far and wide, like I could do anything if they weren't.
June 29, 2016: Dropping whatever I was doing at work, I raced to my phone, contacting loved ones all over Europe with any sort of connection to Turkey, praying that they were not located anywhere near the bombing at the Atäturk Airport. Heart racing and adrenaline pumping, I couldn't sit still until I knew they were all safe.
And those are the few and far between.
Last night, I found myself in the same predicament, worrying about loved ones abroad. And I wondered if this would be the time, that the last time I saw them was X, the last thing I said was Y, and this time was Z: the end.
Are you safe? Are you safe?
If you are looking for an explanation, or a tell-all about who's at fault, you are not going to find one here because I don't even know where to begin. What I do know is, this is not the way to live life: constantly worrying, hoping that this time is not the last time.
Are we safe? Are we safe?
They tell us to go about our lives, not in ignorance of the violence that has and continues to occur, but to live life because this kind of violence could happen anywhere. They tell us not to be paranoid, but that we have to remain aware of our surroundings. And, in a way, they are right. I refuse to live my life in fear. I refuse to be ignorant.
Growing up, my mother used to to tell us that it's not what you say, but it's how you say it -- that the action of tone speaks louder than the words themselves. If you want to make yourself heard, you must speak in a way to make others listen. If you want to make a change, you must be that change.
In order to eliminate the violence, we must make that change and treat others as they ought to be treated. We are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, friends, acquaintances and strangers who deserve a life to be lived. Skin doesn't matter. Gender doesn't matter. Religion doesn't matter. Heritage doesn't matter.
Labels do not matter.
I feel vehemently within the depths of my heart that I have the power to make a positive change in the world around me, and that I am going to live my life making that change. How about you?
