By Sonya Rehman

Privilege can be a strange curse. Removing you from a rawness, a raw, basic kind of living. Privilege can make you cruel, if you aren’t careful. Staring out of your car, with those sad, unfulfilled eyes, you look at the gypsies, their naked children playing with rot, garbage, as the women look back at you. The great divide. Life on a footpath, life laid bare, naked – most vulnerable…real, worldly needs.

Privileged lives weep for lofty dreams, the luxury to bathe for days in self-created grief. A grief that turns to an inner wickedness, a resignation…the gall. Slip, slip, in the stream of privileged pain, feed on the fat of the land and weep – curse the womb you were delivered from, and the God who planted you, you, in your mother’s being. Curse your riches, your name, your fate, for being denied. You – you The Great, the King of Kings, dishing out charity from your perfectly tailored pocket, rob the poor of freedom as you place crisp bills in weathered, grubby hands.  Charity for power, for validation, in notes of the Quaid, as you relentlessly incubate monsters from grief  within. Privilege can make you sick, sick like a rabid dog, if you aren’t careful.

The cure of this individual sickness, spawned from privilege, begins when a life of smoke and mirrors, a life of hypocritical delusions are done away with. Look within, and see.

Three Worlds - M.C. Escher
Three Worlds – M.C. Escher

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