The Nobodies

And from another student, a poem from Eduardo Galeano that also captures the othering of those in less well-off countries. What a week!

The Nobodies written by Eduardo Galeano

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog,

and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them- will rain down in buckets.

But good luck doesn't even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.

Who don't speak languages, but dialects.

Who don't have religions, but superstitions.

Who don't create art, but handicrafts.

Who don't have culture, but folklore.

Who are not human beings, but human resources.

Who do not have names, but numbers.

Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police blotter of the local paper. 

The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.