Imagine — if you will, for a moment, hard as it may be — that you are under a collapsed building, fighting for your life. Think of the chaos, the pain and suffering, the confusion, the yearning to get out from under the heaps, the visceral need to break free. To survive. Imagine that you can hear the muffled voices of neighbors and rescue teams. Their voices are a balm, a relief, a sign from above that the immediate ordeal is ending.
As those people on the outside approach you, their words become clearer. You are nothing but ears now, a single sense honed in, dreaming of deliverance. “Thank you, Jesus,” you hear, and you concur. But the next words that come into focus do not brief relief or freedom or hope: “The president of the pedophiles is dead.” Another voice, cheered on by others: “Death to the masisi!” Death to the faggots.
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