Now a child holds his white flag; a tattered banner of plastic trailing
in the wind from the long, thin stick in his grubby hand. His eyes drip
warm, oily tears; his mouth lies slack and he stands in his pink
slippers amongst a pile of blue and white and brown plastics and
bottles and papers. No one sees his sign; there is no one to see. Who
wants to see in a world that clings to blindness?
Cholera comes, over 2000 are dead. Who dies of cholera in this day and
age? It's outdated, like typewriters and coal-driven trains. The
official symptoms: dehydration, nosebleeds, dried skin, tiredness,
abdominal cramps, nausea, leg cramps and vomiting. Ugly words, neat
lists – I'm not sure what it means. We shrink to caricatures of our
former selves, all humanity lost.
What does it mean when a mother must drag her dying child to the only
hospital in her village, little feet leaving toe-shaped trails in the
sand, only to find that there is no nurse, no doctor – they are all on
strike? There is no clean water in the entire country, they say. So
what does it mean when she must touch her lips to the cracked orifice,
a gaping hole, and try to dredge up a trickle of her own saliva, a
single drop that might keep a small heart rattling inside of a skinny
chest? What does it mean when an old man sits outside his home, dusty
fedora clutched in hand as he feels his stomach twist and shudder,
seize up like a frightened animal inside of him? Who will come and
carry his coiled body in the morning, the body that is nothing but the
cold skin of a snake? There are little bodies and big bodies in the
sand; puddles of congealing vomit on the pavement, and fingers furled
like drying leaves with no one left to mourn and no one left to pick up
the remains.