We Love You, R

A letter to someone I never met

“R” is a woman who was interviewed by the staff of the New York Times podcast, “The Daily.” She is trying to evacuate Afghanistan.

R,

We never met. We will probably never meet.

What does an ordinary family do in your situation? You have no home, no food, no city, and even no country. Your life is collapsing. Your house is reduced to six suitcases. You are hungry and tired.

I am writing this sitting next to a beautiful pond that is filled with flowers and a peaceful trickle from a small waterfall. My simple desires feel extravagant. I feel lucky.

You have no way out of the abominable. What sense can there be as you walk among others on a terrifying, lonesome path toward hopelessness? Your dreams are historical wrecks of a vanished life and somehow your voice is an unforgettable poem with the flutter of love and terror. It has grasped a breeze to whisper broken promises, and its murmur rises above the soulless monsters seeking to ensnare its message to an earthly doom. I think you are remarkable.

Within your teetering mind gripped by grievous choices of life and death, you have expressed what makes life so undefinable and worthwhile. I feel ashamed at my fortunate circumstance of being so far away. Your voice is a ghostly presence in my life.

I am not smart enough to know right or wrong in these situations. I cannot claim any dominion over common sense. What is happening to you and your family is history to be remembered. It is a woman trapped by her birth to a place of misfortune.

I hope your weary steps carry you to a better place and that your words will visit places where they will resonate with those that need to be elevated in circumstances far less dire and threatening.

Your dreams are inspiration. Your hopes are history. Your life is worthwhile.

I go to sleep tonight with the prayer that you can somehow stay alive.