I can’t even imagine

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Photo by Dikaseva and Unsplash. Used with permission.

I can’t imagine living through the horror that unfolded in Nice. You are strolling along the promenade, maybe with your family or friends, maybe not, and a maniac — because who else would do this?— appears from nowhere and drives a truck into the crowd, killing close to 100 people, many of them children. I can’t imagine the pain of family members and friends left behind, who, through a mire of grief, would be questioning the circumstances and decisions and choices that brought them there to that place, at that time.

I can’t even begin to imagine the painful and tragic and awful things that happen to so many people, from all across the globe. Yes, I’ve known pain and tragedy and awful things, but not to the extent where I’ve lost people I’ve loved through death, other than by natural causes or accidents. No one I am close to has ever died at the hand of another.

I want to, but I can’t even imagine a world where people feel safe because they are safe. Where people aren’t shot because of the colour of their skin, or their religion or their job or where they live. Or beaten because of who they sleep with. Or who they’ve chosen as partners. Where children aren’t scared to go to school, and parents aren’t afraid to send them. Where war and terrorism and murder and torture don’t exist.

I want to imagine this world, but I can’t and I wish I could.

For all our sakes.

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