Reading Between the Stripes

Today wars are raging across continents—from Europe to Asia to Africa—and there is confusion in every mind around “who is the victim.” Every conflict carries two sides—sometimes more. Between the labels of oppressor and oppressed, protector and predator, lies everyone’s own truth, built upon fear, vulnerability and greed.

That made me think about something far simpler.

The life of the humble zebra.

The zebra is one of nature’s most beautiful creations—graceful, patterned, peaceful. Yet, for generations, it has lived under constant threat from the lion, with no real strength to fight back. While the lions come in a pack, the zebras are unable to mobilize their own kind to defend themselves.

It is difficult not to feel for the zebra.

Why does it continue to endure, simply running for its life across endless plains, century after century?

If evolution is a fact, it is tempting to wonder why the zebra did not, metaphorically speaking, “invent a machine gun” to kill the lions.

Maybe it has adapted—but its progress lies in quiet resilience, in the rhythm of running, grazing, escaping, and living on. There is perhaps wisdom in this surrender to the natural order.

So the zebra lives within this reality—at peace where it can be, alert where it must be, grateful for another day.

Now, if you were the grass, enduring this endless aggression from the zebras day after day, how would you see the zebra and the lion?

Would the zebra be your monster—the one that devours you without pause—and the lion your protector, the one that keeps that hunger in check and allows you to grow back?

Think about it.

Wall That Remembered

This is my attempt in response to Friday Writings #218: The World Is Burning, But…

Image generated by Gemini

I was bored all day sitting inside. For someone as athletic as me, confinement is torture—especially after coming all the way to the hills for a vacation.

Ron and Ana seemed perfectly happy reading, hugging, or gazing at each other. I, however, had no romantic partner here and urgently needed to move. After hours of my finest whining, they finally gave in.

The air outside tasted wild.

I sprinted through the grass toward the rocky bottom of the hill. Normally I am very stable and balanced, but today loose gravel betrayed me. I slipped and skidded down the slope—twenty feet, maybe more.

Ron shouted and rushed down to help while Ana followed more carefully, already annoyed that I had complicated the trip.

As we searched for a way back up, we noticed an opening in the hillside. No door, no sign—just darkness breathing out cool air. After a brief debate, they agreed to the adventure, and I was more than happy to take the lead.

Once inside, the light faded quickly. Ron switched on the flashlight of his phone and aimed it down the tunnel.

The beam revealed faded paintings along the walls—hands pressed flat into stone, faces leaning close together, a small figure lifted toward a circle of others. It felt as if the walls had once been a journal for people who lived here long ago.

Deeper inside, the drawings changed. The colors grew muddy, the strokes hurried. A group pressed together behind something that looked like a barricade.

Ana’s voice broke the silence.
“Ron… these aren’t celebrations.”

He moved the light slowly along the wall.
“They’re hiding.”

Further inside, charcoal figures crouched low, their lines tangled like roots gripping the earth.

Ana brushed dust away from a small inscription while Ron read softly, his voice faltering:

“The world is burning, but we want to live.”

Ana read the line below it.
“They will find us one day and stop the oxygen flow.”

Ron pointed to the corner wall.
“Look at those numbers crossed out—a countdown.”

Next to it lay a shallow pit where the bones rested in an open grave.

Ronbir and Anasua stood there a long time, holding hands.

“Will there ever be peace in this part of our world?” Anasua whispered.

Sometimes I can tell when people are remembering something they never lived.

I wondered if the people who tried to stay alive here had a few dogs with them.

Like me.