No words. Just tears and silence.

I woke on Friday morning with a jolting 'No!' It sucked the air from my lungs as the sleepy fog in my brain was suddenly blown away by the words on the radio.
I listened and watched and read with tears flowing down my face, as my coffee grew cold and I felt ashamed to be human. 

I cried again when I called my child to hurry up because we were going out and I gasped for a moment as I thought about those homes where children wouldn't be hurried any more because their bodies lay broken. And I wept at the thought of silence in those empty homes.

Where are the words to describe what happened in Nice? No word, in any language, is powerful enough, shocking enough or stripped-down-honest enough to describe those utterly disgusting and simply appalling events. No words. Just the feelings in our gut; the choking tears and the sadness that wants to turn to rage but can't because again the wind is torn from our sails and our sails are tattered rags fluttering on a beach and we are broken.

We witness vile acts too often. A single act would be too often. Repeated acts ignite disbelief and despair. Disbelief in that we struggle to believe the awfulness of what has happened and dis-belief in the ripping away of any shreds of faith that still cling to our hearts. I saw a friend post  - 'Our hearts are with those injured and bereaved in Nice but we do not pray for them. Saying pray for them brings religion into our response and it is religion and religious hatred that is at the root of most of the atrocities that are happening today.' I am not sure that I agree. I don't believe. But I do believe that my neighbour has the right to believe and I respect that right. And I recognise that while I question that there could be any God who would benignly watch what happened in Nice or indeed allow it to happen, there are those who take comfort in praying for the victims. They should be allowed to do so.

Littlest cried yesterday, confronted with newspaper images showing lumpy mounds draped with cloths and blankets lying on the ground. Visual imagery is often more powerful and shocking than words. Destined to perhaps become the iconic image of this terrorist attack is a photograph of a man sitting close to the remains of someone he loved; his hands clasped, his face distant, his being solitary. He is alone. Alone. What does this arresting image say about us and our time? That we can't heal ourselves. That we can't rub along with each other. That we live in a time of hate. Where hate wins. Where hate floods our lives with media coverage of despicable acts. Again and again. Where hate always wins. In the end.

No. No. No.

We must change. We must look at the world we are creating for our children.
Our only way as individuals of making a difference is to ensure that our children understand that all men and women are equal. The race, the sexuality, the amount of pigment in their skin and the icons they worship should make no difference to their value to us as individuals or to the world as a whole. It must make no difference. Only by challenging future generations to accept each other will we ever have a chance of stopping the virus that calls itself hate. 

Hate is a sickness. Diplomacy and negotiation are part of the cure. As are education and tackling poverty. And stopping wars. And intelligence gathering. And security. And acting towards others with dignity and respect. And engaging with the disaffected. But for the cure to work an antidote is needed. And forgive me for being simplistic but the antidote to this sickness is love. We love our children and we teach them to be better than us. Love is the cure. It always has been. It always will be.

Without love hate breeds hate and we descend into a place where no light remains. That should not be our future. It will not be.