Friday morning, I woke up to a pain in my back. I know the pain, a nasty pain that overpowers me in winter, in the cold; a pain that deprives me of what flexibility is left for me in my back, that folds me in two, whether I stand up or sit down. I set out from my house, with great difficulty, to a ministry that awaited me, and then came back. After lunch, I received, on my phone, a backbreaking piece of news that folds the whole life as though it were a book, the news of four missing people (two women and two children), who were said to be Syrians, and who were found, in the highlands of Ainata, “dead from the cold”! I knew nothing about them. My hatred went from the pains caused by the cold to my house that warms me up, and to the cowardly politics that hides behind “the cold”! When will the “season of cold” come to an end in this country? When will the idol of the ego which is murdering the poor people, in cold blood like death itself, be torn down?
