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a year agoShe sits in me, always. Unknowing if alive or a martyr. Like many of the children I have borne witness too over this half of a year. They sit in me, in my bones, in my nerves, under my skin, against my muscles inside my lungs inside my heart. All this extra weight, this extra song, these gallons of tears, and gales of laughter, gales of anguish, their want and love and dream and shine, all of it is in me, my body hurts, my body tired. Six months my body has carried them, my body hurts my body tired, I canāt sleep, and when I do itās a farce, like the unseen world is whispering to me āsleep? you dare? sleep is not for you, not for any of you who could let these children be slaughtered, these children be orphaned, these children amputeed, how dare youā How dare us. How dare they.
Mumia: āThere is something shattering about the death, the killing, of a child. When a child dies the natural order is torn, the stars weep and the earth quakes. We have become so accustomed to this system we suppose it is natural instead of a human imposition. Politicians in the pocket of so called police unions bow before bags of silver and blink away the death of a child ā especially if a black child.
āWhat man-made institution is more precious than a child? What job? What so called profession? What office? What state? When a child dies, adults donāt deserve to breathe their stolen air. When a child dies, the living must not rest until they have purged the poison that dared harm such a one. When a child dies, time runs backward and attempts to right such a wrong.
āThis should inspire movements worldwide to fight like never before. For something vile has happened before our eyes.ā