I DON’T KNOW ANYONE THAT WAS KILLED BUT I KNOW EVERYONE THAT WAS KILLED

I don’t know anyone that was killed.

I know everyone that was killed.

I don’t know anyone that was taken hostage.

I know everyone that was taken hostage.

I look at the pictures of the little children.

The toddlers. The preschoolers.

I look in their eyes and I see the innocence of youth.

The joy and excitement that each new day brings.

The belief, born out of their parent’s love, that nothing bad would ever happen to them.

I look at their pictures and I see my grandchildren.

I look at the pictures of the young men and women.

The festival goers. The moms and dads.

I look at their eyes and I see the hope that the life that they are building for their children will be one of safety and security.

That while working and raising children is hard, there is nothing more rewarding.

Especially doing it in place that you love and you believe in.

That tomorrow will bring a new day of hope and promise.

I look at their pictures and I see my children.

I look at the pictures of the grandparents.

Proudly posing with three generations.

I look in their eyes and I see the love that they have for their children and grandchildren.

The weathered look of their skin. The wisdom in their eyes.

The feeling, jumping out from the picture, that is so unique to being a grandparent, of loving beyond what you thought you were capable of.

I look at their pictures and I see my myself. I see my wife.

The children in the pictures have been killed.

The young men and women in the pictures have been killed.

The grandparents have been killed.

I don’t know anyone that was killed.

I know everyone that was killed.

I don’t know anyone that was taken hostage.

I know everyone that was taken hostage.