For those of you who haven’t already heard, murder and destruction reared its all-too familiar head, and struck again. This time the people of Belgium mourn for the horror that was conceived in its capital, Brussels.
Today, #PrayforParis became #PrayforBrussels.
I don’t know how to write this post. I don’t know how much I’m allowed to feel about this, without crossing a line. It wasn’t my country. It wasn’t my culture. It wasn’t my people. How upset can I really be for a land that’s not my own? How can I grieve for this great loss, while still be thankful that it wasn’t my own? How can I convince myself that this loss was my own?
I’ve had an undertone of apathy since I was 16. My best friend died suddenly, and after that I was never quite the same. I blame this for my reaction to the Paris attacks and now, the Brussels attacks.
I wish I cared more. Sometimes you have to make yourself care. Actually, I think most times you have to make yourself care. So I’m going to. I am going to make myself care until it’s genuine.
More than 30 people were murdered today. More than 200 people were viciously injured. The count is still climbing. These people, these souls, went out in to eternity to meet their maker. This is horrible. This is a big deal. This is tragic. Recognize the significance and allow yourself to be broken for Brussels.
Broken For Brussels.