When I woke up this morning, I stood before my alter and said a prayer. I prayed for the mothers in Egypt. I prayed that change would be good for them, for their children. I was hopeful.
When I saw the cover of the New York Times I saw the change. It was dark and violent. It was angry. It was dangerous. I was scared. For the mothers. For the children.
I don't know the politics. I'm not going to pretend. I'm not going to spout American Left wing Right wing hyperbole.
I am a mother.
I live in a country where my child gets free education. I can speak my mind freely in public. I can get a job. I have no idea what it would be like to NOT have those things.
I know what it feels like to want my child to have opportunities. Safety, security, education.
Then I watched NBC Nightly News. Brian Williams spoke to an American woman trapped in her apartment. She was fending off a gang of thugs trying to break into her apartment. Mary Thornberry was 77 years old. She refused to leave because, "its her home."
I became a worried daughter. I thought about what I would do if my mother was half-way across the globe, alone, scared. Fighting angry men off with a paring knife. Watching change on prime real estate. Hearing revolution outside her window.
In the city where I live, flags of black and gold wave on breezes. Twenty minutes of the local news are devoted to the football team and their quest for "Seven". Superbowl. Snow covers the ground. In stillness I can hear birds. I can talk to my mother on the phone. My daughter sleeps with her arms wrapped around a Barbie doll, dreaming of school in the morning. This is my democracy, this is my freedom, this is my right. This is my normal.
Somewhere in North Africa, there is a mother that wishes for my life.
I am grateful for what I have, and I'm thankful. I will pray for her, and all the mothers that want something better for their children, their country.
