This is a song my sister wrote a while ago. It is incredibly relevant. “Dogfight” by Stephanie Tamasweet.
I had another post planned for this morning but how I can write or post about anything after what happened in Mogadishu this weekend?
276 dead. And rising.
300 wounded. At the very least. Severely wounded.
The worst terrorist bomb in Somalia’s history.
That’s saying something, in Somalia.
Turkey sent an airplane full of medical supplies and staff. Djibouti sent an airplane full of medical supplies and staff, including the Minister for Health. Somali rescue workers are doing an incredible job, they pulled a young man from the rubble, alive, after he was buried more than 40 hours. And yet. For a nation already ravaged by violence, this seems especially devastating. There had been so many signs of Somalia coming back to life. And now what?
To see some of the work being done in Mogadishu, check out these Instagram accounts:
But it isn’t just Somalia. It is among the Rohinga. Where a young woman’s baby is ripped from her arms, tossed into a fire, and while her child burns, she is gang raped. It is Las Vegas. Where couples out for a night on the town are slaughtered from above. Where we are forced to reckon with what we have collectively done to our planet when water comes where it shouldn’t and fires rage without end.
Dear God have mercy. Mercy. Its all I can think. People want to go to school, buy spinach in the market, watch movies, eat watermelon, play football, have access to a hospital, stay in hotels, eat pizza, swim in the ocean. People want to fall in love and give birth and dance at graduation parties and pray in community. People want to go on long runs and gaze up at a starry sky and listen to their grandchildren giggle.
When did we start hating ourselves so much that we decided killing other people could cure our brokenness?
When did someone’s peaceful day become an opportunity for carnage? Someone’s shop/ice cream parlor/bookstore/concert hall/hotel/movie theater/elementary school/dance club a place for horror?
When did fearlessly wielding death become a facade of power and strength?
When did men become gods?
How long must the world remain on fire before the God of mercy hears?
When I first heard the song Dogfight, I sat down on the floor in my bedroom and wept. When I heard what happened in Mogadishu, I listened to it at least five times on repeat. I asked my sister for permission to share it and she bravely said yes.
That’s how we move forward. Bravely. Together. Sharing our gifts and our brokenness and refusing to let hatred have the final word.
Have a listen, if you didn’t already, or maybe again. Have a cry. Pray for mercy.