The Story of Somalia - Locals dying in front of your eyes?

Standing here at this small village in Somalia, I’m not only physically tired from endless
walking and the high temperature, but also spiritually sick: Four walls made of grass and mud
bending towards each other just to balance their weight, on top a large piece of neon red
plastic was finally fixed in place with four ugly stones on each corner, increasing the burden
for the four elderlies below which hardly stand up straight — home, is what the locals call it,
for me, it’s a place so remote and dangerous. I tried my best not to lean against the walls even
though I feel like collapsing, as I observed the sharp tips of the grass points out from the mud
like patients outreaching for help, and the sun heated the mud to dryness, leaving behind
huge cracks, near the edge powdered mud and dust were blown away by the wind, and
through the cracks, I saw things that made me almost puked out my breakfast.

An adult man was laying on the heated ground, breathing heavily and moaning in the softest
voice, his skin paper thin, on the edge of breaking as all ribs are way above his stomach and
the rest of his body, there’s no furniture in his “home”, and the conditions were even worse
than any cell. Weeping hard, I dive into deep thoughts of condolences to my fellow friend,
Carter.

I was in California doing first-hand data research when my partner handed me a picture in
solemn, reporters and photographers dying in Africa is indeed common, but suicide is
considered scarce. Curious and sad, I looked down towards the picture which marked the end
of my dearest friend’s life, and almost immediately I understood. It wasn’t those photos with
massive skills shown, but the ones which message was strong and irritating. A toddler in the
middle of nowhere, isolated and so weak, bent down on the verge of falling. With no clothing,
bones were clearly shown, and it was scarier than skeletons, as it was very much alive. He was
bending in such a twisted position, not on his knees, nor really sitting down, but feet and
elbows on the ground, little muscles on his arm contracted — it’s more likely to be a position
between life and death. Despite his suffering and personal difficulties, there’s also danger
elsewhere. A vulture not so far away, fat and fully feathered, was staring wildly at the toddler,
in size the toddler must be larger than the vulture, but it’s also very clear that he has less
meat. The vulture seemed reluctant, as if it was measuring whether it’s worth it to haunt him,
or maybe it is shocked by how skinny he is. The sun shined on both of them, burning their lives
and writing the dead end of the toddler…

Looking back to the man I saw, I felt hopeless. The wall in front of me was a barrier, stopping
all help in searching for people like the toddler and him, but now even though I could find him,
what could I do? The disease they carry was too much, stepping in equals to a death penalty
for me, but standing here equals to watching a funeral for him. I was anxious, but my
emotions just couldn’t contribute, so I ran to call for medical support. The end? He recovered,
but I was blamed for “overreacting”, as such tragedies happen every day.
“Qu'ils mangent de la brioche” is the best quote into describing global citizens when dealing
with African problems, I cannot change this situation, but like what my friend said, “ I am
haunted by vivid memories of killings & corpses & anger & pain.” Wake up from the Versailles
palace dreams, my queens, the world is more like cabins.