#IAmMogadishu, but I want us to think of more than simply this moment. We don't think of Paris or London as memorial to atrocity. We can and should write ourselves better narratives than "this is something that happens over there." This is what we owe to Somalia.
A friend and new dad once told me he was fighting in Afghanistan so his son never would have to. This was in 2011. We have sixteen years to go.
Afghanistan eats bombs. It eats rockets, too, and bullets, mortars, IEDs, RPGs, souls. Its hunger is immediate and insatiable, and while thrashing for more, it uncaringly kills men, women, children, foreigner, and local. Who taught this monster to crave flesh and gunpowder? We weren't the first--a history of conquest and cruelty map across the mountains and deserts--but we feed it, and in doing so only strengthen this beast.
This piece comes from my time as a Rotary Peace Fellow. After 2 months of study, we traveled to Sri Lanka to examine the post-war--yet still tense--situation. This is my reflection on the week spent both in Jaffna up north, and Colombo, the capitol. An island is a dangerous thing—there is nowhere to go, no... Continue Reading →