Samanth’s father had often claimed he’d been robbed. Of his heritage, his culture, his homeland. The list was burnt into Samanth’s mind for the moment he’d learnt to string together words and ask his father questions.
At nineteen there was a girl whose skin turned his father’s eyes dark with fury. His father pointed at her back through the kitchen window and burnt new words into Samanth’s mind. In these ones Samanth was the thief, the robber snatching away what was left of “their kin”.
Samanth looked at his father.
“You cannot steal another’s essence father. Only surrender it yourself.”
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I’ve always seen both sides of the fence on this…the sadness of heritage being diluted and lost, and the sadness of young love throttled and contained.
It’s a tricky siutation, and I did think twice before putting this up because I know how passionately some people feel about this. However, I’ve always felt that fear over losing something cannot be a reason for refusing to accept someone. Everything changes and develops and as long as we remember, and keep the past alive in ourselves then no matter what that heritage will find a way to continue. [I really hope that makes sense.]
You captured the dilemma so well
I’m glad you think so.
I’m glad you think so. 😊