We usually have a little competition: who’ll be the first to spot the goats? Camouflaged well, the colour of the volcanic rocks and scrub they’re seeking sustenance amongst. Where will they find water? Hundreds of them, bleating quietly. They’ll never know the satisfaction of a square meal.
And it’s brought home to me keenly that I’m pampered, for in days past and present I know it’s not only these goats that must nose and scrape amongst unforgiving rocks for the simple privilege of staying alive. What appear to me to be intolerably dangerous and inhospitable territories are just ordinary, everyday life for millions.
I pray that present need to improve the security of the nations does not turn privileged human hearts and minds against the legitimate needs of those who hunger and thirst on oceans and amongst dust and rocks.