A message on the #venezuela slack channel today started with:
The call I was always afraid of. This morning my mother was murdered.
The message is from a friend. A great person with a beautiful family. They live in the US. He’s a geek, a bit intense — and annoyingly smart.
Why would he be afraid of such a horrible call? Likely because all cold minded Venezuelans living abroad are. We all experience the same leap second of panic every time an incoming phone call from home appears in our smartphones.
Four months ago my next door neighbor received one. For him, it was his Dad.
This post has no real point or ending. Just the need to share the incredible sadness of having to once again utter: I’m so sorry for your loss — and seeing the words fall light years short of the comfort you wish to get across.
I feel useless not being able to help with his pain in this horrible time. But I’m also terrified of understanding how he feels.