The Blind [colour]
By demanding honesty from others, I myself will be honest, he said. He asked , are you honest with me? Can I trust you?
He sat on a plastic chair. Behind him his comrades in the sea, his fellow travelers, all those who seek for an Ithaca: immigrants, refugees, outcasts. The salt of the sea has burnt their faces. But his badge on the side of his heart remains intact.
On the table papers in a language he cannot comprehend. All he could do was to trust those beside him that they were telling him the truth. His signature was based on trust. He tried to figure out what those letters which formed words which formed phrases meant. But, what can a blind man see?
The immigrant is a blind man. The only thing he sees is numbers. Thus, he counts the pages. 20 different papers he has to sign. And there are many others who wait. It will be a long procedure.
Are you honest with me? Because, to be honest with you, I cannot return back. There is a dream I have, you see. And I am not me. We are a band of brothers, who do not know the face of each other: unknown and unacknowledged yet connected.
We are from Syria, Libya, Morocco, India, Pakistan, Nigeria, Palestine, Ethiopia. We will be from Greece, Spain, Portugal: an army of blind, who seek to find a light so bright to make us see again.
One returns back, 1.000 come forward. For as long as we are blind we travel.
If we could see, we could not be immigrants. For we see no future in our countries. And thus, we can only see on our dreams. We dream of honesty and justice. In our dreams we see. We see Europe.
And thus, the salt burns our skin, we travel through the seas. A blind sailor guided by dreams. People profit from us. For we are blind. But the more you send us back, the more we shall arrive. For we have a high purpose that we have to succeed: To discover Vision. Not to be blind. To be free.
Be honest with me: can you see me? can I trust you with my dream? will you fool the blind?