“They were our neighbors.” “My mother used to give them food.” “He was my father’s business partner.” “They were our friends…” In October 2015 on my inaugural visit to a country which I’d come to love and frequent, I walked through the dimly lit corridors of a place with a lump on my throat and a knot in my stomach.With every step and stopped and watched the videos of recounts on the screens against the wall;
The clouds, usually a pristine white had been painted with a frighteningly assertive grey. One prominent one shot through the sky like a rocket heading straight for the moon- except instead of surging further upwards, it loomed over the solar ball whose bright yellow was now gravitating to a fiery orange.
A member of a privileged-at-the-time group of people that I too happen to belong to allegedly committed a serious crime. The nation is outraged and anxious…and obnoxious.