Stories that meet.

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Because ther is always hope of the light of the sun. Even when you don’t see it.

Sometimes you see a story that so well tells what you had already formulated for yourself. I felt that just now when I read Dina Nayeri’s ‘the ungrateful refugee’. There are some categories in people that do not seem to allow humans as a species. When you are from this category you are either a saint or a pagan, an angel of a devil. you’re either used as a success story to lift everyone up and makes others happy to not be you or a horror story that justifies everyone’s anger, and allows us to no longer critically look at ourselves. Oh the irony. The people that we either see as angels or demons are not allowed what we sometimes don’t want ourselves- a mirror that allows us to see us as we are, not as other perceive us. ‘I am only people’ I remember our host in a small hostel in Budapest when the oven went a bit overboard and none of us really knew what to do. Of course, she meant ‘I’m only human’. But perhaps, there is space in the linguistic fault of I am only people. People means human beings, it means the collective of a tribe, it allows us to be part of something that others are not – the people of the Netherlands, museum people, and at the same time we are general. People love being loved. We are ordinary persons, without influence, might, subjects of something that is higher than any of us that at the same time can be just like us. A man of the people. I am only people. I’d like to meet you and know who you are as well.

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