At aina Firas Jatou has a link to an elaborate site at which you can protest the comments made by a governor of Alabama about the Turks and their actions against us Christians. The governor claims that WE killed Turks! Firas should have heard the comments of another governor of Alabama, George Wallace, about Blacks among other things. They come that way, these governors of Alabama, something in the water or hogbacks and chitlins.
It's still interesting to see how incensed we become over any maltreatment of our dead. Let someone trample over their graves, let someone malign their cause, let someone hint they died in vain, or suggest that as they're dead they can't know etc... and all hell breaks loose...petitions are called for, protests are sought, apologies demanded, UN observers sent in, the press alerted and if we could afford it we'd make a movie about it.
Of course the truth should be told. But there are other truths, like...we are being killed RIGHT NOW with the financial backing and indifference of Assyrians like Firas and others. You mean to tell me that an Assyrian of Syria or Iran is supposed to care about an Assyrian of Turkey who was killed 100 years ago, but NOT care about an Assyrian child dying in Iraq today because the child is IRAQI?? Am I not getting something?
If, in ten years time, or fifty, some governor says the Assyrians being killed today were really a gang killing Moslem Iraqis...will some Firas leap into action because our "martyrs" have been maligned? Do none of us care for the living? Do you have to die first to "count". Is the only good Assyrian a dead Assyrian...like General George Custer said of Native Americans?
Why can't we bestir ourselves for the children among us who are alive...who have to grow up in a country where their own parents and relatives do so little for them...while catering to their dead "cousins"?
It's a little macabre. Reminds me of those old horror films, maybe with a demented mother who has tenderly preserved her dead child's corpse just as it was...in its crib, in its nursery, surrounded by all its old and dusty toys, where the windows are shut day and night, where it is always night, where the clocks have been stopped at the hour the child died years back...and she comes to it each day and changes its clothing, plays with it, swings the rotting thing on a swing...feeds it through clenched teeth...tucks it in at night after singing a lullabye, plants a tender kiss on its shrivelled cheek and tiptoes out to make dinner for the other child...the neglected sister who's been crying for its mother for hours downstairs, locked in her room lest she disturb her dead brother's sleep.
When will we care for the living?
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