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Measured and quietly I approach you to kneel beside you, as you kneel, to meet you at the same eye level. I place my hand gently and respectfully on your shoulder and you twitch together under the unexpected touch. The pain and tears had limited your senses, so you did not notice my coming to you. Only now that I touch you, you come back a little, a little disappointed the sea of sadness and tears.

“Who are you bewailing, my sister? I want to cry with you and put on the mourning robe”, I speak to you.
“No, you are not my sister, you are different from me”, you answer rude, and withdraw from me, trying to escape my touch.
“Yes, I am different from you, because neither of us is like the other. I may have a different religion from you and give God a different name, which is undamaged by one. Maybe I have a different skin color, speak a different language and come from another country. I certainly have a different career and my own story, like yours. But despite all these differences, which are basically just marginal and insignificant, there is something that makes it possible for us to approach each other, yes, which makes me call you sister,” I speak to you, and I notice that you pay attention to my words.
“What can that be, what makes it possible for us to accept each other, yes, what gives you the right to call me sister?”, You speak to me.
“Across all these differences, we are all either mother or sister or daughter, and as such I can sympathize with your loss, your sorrow, and your pain. If you lose someone you love, a rift goes through your heart and mind, and I can see that rift,” I speak to you.
“Beyond all these differences, we are all either mother or sister or daughter, and if I see you suffering because of someone suffering whom you love, then I can understand your suffering and give you my hand, give you my support”, you speak to me.
“Beyond all these differences, we are all either mother or sister or daughter, and when death or illness or distress knock on your door, I can understand how you feel, can embrace you and offer you the comfort of the compassionate” , I speak to you.
“Beyond all these differences, we are all either mother or sister or daughter, so we do not understand war or invasion, because in every war mothers mourn their children, mourn sisters for their siblings, mourn daughters for their parents. We can never want that!”, you speak to me.

“Who are you bewailing, my sister?” I ask again.
“I am crying out for the deaths of the children, siblings and parents who are responsible for their lack of insight and stupidity, because they did not find the way to each other across all the differences”, you tell me.
“So I want to cry with you, sister, and go with you to find a way that no longer knows the tears,” I speak to you.

Hand in hand, mothers, sisters, daughters, one way, let us go

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