New York talks to Manila talks to Vancouver talks to London talks to Hong Kong talks to Johannesburg talks to Sidney everyday. Trade borders down, internet lines up. Whirring, whirring, the world is whirring with the sound of inter-connectivity. We are all connected by CNN, cyber porn and Paris Hilton.
And yet, they have forbidden us from seeing your tears.
Your government is raiding your monasteries, stoning your parents, killing your saffron robed monks, raping your country. Cruel and merciless and persistent.
But we have been denied access to your cries.
Two hundred soldiers march at your Sule Pagoda, clattering their shields with wooden batons. We imagine you cringing in terror, but you are not allowed to speak to us of your fears. There are no photographs, no videos. Only junta-manufactured truths.
We are not allowed to see your anguish.
But we hear you, Rangoon. In bits and slivers, we hear you. We know of your bravery. We watch you in awe as you rise against the tyranny; we see only a people bold and brave and beautiful and longing to be free. We bleed with you, Rangoon. We weep for your martyrs. We seethe at the epic injustice that is your story.
And down on our knees, eyes closed, we pray with you.