The attack on July 14 in Nice plunged entire families into mourning by taking away the breath of life from children, citizens, and innocent beings.
This act shocked the entire world and hardened hearts. The pain is likely to be sharp for a long time, along with a part of joy and carefreeness that we had within us, which will be gone forever. It is the fate of all who have experienced war, a trauma as gathered from every testimony, regardless of the place or era.
The future is unclear, but how could it be otherwise?
The positive side lies in the active solidarity that flourishes everywhere, notably through sharing and exchange via social networks.
Among these tributes, “The Promenade of the Martyrs,” a text found on Facebook and other platforms, raises awareness about the reality of the events. Without embellishment or voyeurism. With humanity.
Words may fly away, yet some words should not be left unspoken.
Away from conventional thinking, which is a deep malaise in France, at the risk of shocking, remains what was seen, felt, and experienced by an ordinary person like me, a simple messenger. Behind the tears often lies misunderstanding. But before these tears stand what we will indeed try to hide.
Yesterday, innocence met death. Bodies lay on the ground facing the sea stirred by the wind. Behind the blood-stained white truck, immobile bodies are already covered with makeshift shrouds.
Among them, little hands lay limp, having let go of Mom’s hand, Dad’s watch, Bunny’s ears. Fingers that will not move again. At least not here.
Just a few hours ago, these mischievous eyes were gazing at the “boom” of the fireworks in the sky over Nice. Eyes that shone with joy and dreams. Little heads nestled lovingly against their protective parents.
Life, nothing but life.
Some were barely walking, some were shy, others brave, all had the innocence and purity of childhood. Today they are dead.
It was the start of the summer holidays, there was still so much to do, to experience, to accomplish. Going to the sea, finding a sweetheart, having fun, growing up, and building themselves. Returning to school and following their path. Like everyone else, actually. Like we all did.
But in this world, “men are born free, simple, and honest and have complicated everything.” The weakest became an offering to the most cowardly.
The Promenade des Anglais has become the Promenade of the Martyrs.
So wrapped in their final sheets, these little ones and all these grown-ups indeed had small wings so that somewhere, yes, they may continue their journey in peace. Hell will be destined for those who remain and mourn the folly of men.
A mundane story of humanity….
