Sparkle Dies, Puppets Wiggle

Her father called her Sparkle. Grandma claimed her beauty could crack a stone. The judgement of a grandma can be subjective, but Sparkle was undoubtedly a happy and healthy four-year-old who left a trail of smiles on the faces of the people she bounced by.

Sparkle is dead, dead as the rag doll by her side under the rubble of what had been her home. The hell fire from drone-launched missiles doesn’t discriminate between between walls, dolls or kids. Or grandmas.

Sparkle wasn’t murdered alone. Happiness, smiles and love were slaughtered with her. The void was instantly filled with grief, rage and hate.

These massacres are repeated week after week in remote villages from Pakistan to Sudan. They are almost always sandwich attacks. Minutes after the initial slaughter, new hellfire missiles explode among those who rush to the sceen to help possible survivors.

You won’t see the crushed body of Sparkle on your TV-screen or in your newspaper. How could you? There’s no room for such insignificant innocents among the giant puppets wearing human-like smiles. You won’t see the fear that Sparkle’s terrorized playmates will grow up with either. The puppets must have their space to wiggle their limbs and speak of freedom.

(Tomorrow: Ancient Wrong & Wrong)