115 people have died in a fire in a garments factory in Ashulia, outside of Dhaka. A fire that it seems was started on purpose. When the workers heard the fire alarm and tried to escape, their supervisors sent them back, and locked the doors of the building.
Those sentences don’t make a lot of sense, do they?
Writing these words on this blog is as useless as a facebook like. It doesn’t do anything. It feels wrong to write them, in fact, because of how useless it is. But just going on to write my next chirpy little post feels wrong too. As it if didn’t happen? As if I even should just say, this happened? It felt that way with Ramu, as well. God, I just said nothing. It makes me not want to tell my stories anymore, because it feels so essentially wrong to even have the stories at all. It makes me want to shut up.
“Your silence will not protect you.” – Audre Lorde
I know. I wish I could do something. I wish I was the powerful sort of writer where the words I put down could actually do something. I’m not there, yet. I can’t do it yet. I can’t even bring myself to properly describe things. I honestly do not have the courage. Maybe someday. Maybe just because I’m selfish, and writing it’ll bleed off a little bit of the guilt.
You know, sometimes I get scared. Just real scared. Making this helpline. Taking Rozy and my group of volunteers who are trusting me to guide them right into people’s pain. I don’t even know pain. I don’t know anything.