A vision from Afghanistan. A small girl child, of about five, was lying in bed in a makeshift hospital. She had picked up an unexploded cluster bomb, a bright yellow plaything compliments of the United States.

While exploring this newfound toy it exploded, removing in one swift and horrible moment her beautiful little hand.

The image which is staying with me, and which is burned into my brain, is that of her mother entering the ward and the confused crying child placing her good arm around her mother’s neck. I am seeing this image from behind. The back of the mother and the small vulnerable arm.

This gesture of trust, this hug which places heart to heart, so unnerved me I wept and had to turn off the TV.

I felt like turning it off for good. I had seen too much misery for one year. But turning off the TV didn’t mean the image went away.  

What was it about this which grieved me so. Maybe this. I have a small girl child friend of about five.

When I visit I always pick her up and experience the unquestioned trust in that small gesture of her placing an arm around my neck.

I also often watch her being picked up by her parents and delight in observing the same gesture. The placing of the small arm around the adult’s neck in total trust of the adult world.

Or maybe I was upset by the following. Going back for a moment to the image of that useless little dead hand lying somewhere in a small rural Afghanistan village where the people have no history with those who bomb them.

Imagine the aftermath of this relevantly small event of which there are so many. All of these brutalities, for the moment, concentrated in this destroyed small child’s hand.

What did this carelessly dropped raw cluster bomb take away. Many possibilities.

Many possibilities to make, to draw, to paint, to prepare food, to garden, to sew, many possibilities to touch, many possibilities to caress, many possibilities to wave, many possibilities to gesture. All possibilities to create the most simple experiences of a life.

There are thousands of these people for which this constant terror is, and has been, a daily experience for a long time now.

Some of these people can’t take anymore and have decided to leave the land of their birth (imagine that) and find a somewhat safer place elsewhere. And in so doing risk everything.

We have recently seen some of these displaced people appear on our TV screens. Crammed onto boats. We label these people illegal immigrants. These people whom some politicians label ‘possible terrorists’.

When you repeat a lie often enough most people will start to accept it as the truth, especially when the lie is based on common fear.

The fear of not knowing. The fear of not understanding. Blind fear.

If what we are now doing with the refugees is right what is there left to be done that is wrong?

What can we, sitting here safely, well-fed, well-clothed, possibly do about this terrible state of affairs. Turn off the TV when it becomes too much?

Why are we, as a nation so afraid of a relative few people who have only misery to carry with them?

Why are we as a nation so accepting of those continuous lies, cleverly based on our fears? Do we actually question this, or is it all too difficult.

I heard an interview with a New Zealand commentator who explained that in New Zealand the government gives refugees work visas.

It has turned out that most of these people make excellent immigrants.

Why? Most probably because they are resourceful and because they share. Abilities we, in the main, seem to have lost in the comfort zone of our wellbeing.