The mother was beating her disabled child
I could have run past,
I could have looked the other way...
I didn't. I stopped and got the story;
Follow my blog and get their story
And remember my mom's wise word; "there is always a reason"
I could have run past,
I could have looked the other way...
I didn't. I stopped and got the story;
Follow my blog and get their story
And remember my mom's wise word; "there is always a reason"
FOR ENGLISH: SCROLL DOWN
Jeg stoppet.
Jeg var ute på min daglige løpetur. Denne morgenen hadde jeg bestemt meg for en rolig langkjørings-økt rundt flyplassen. Denne turen går forbi et dusin av politivakter og militære kontrollposter før den strekker seg ut langs rullebanens gjerder.
Politiet og soldatene er like overrasket hver gang jeg løper forbi dem; løper du? hvor skal du? hvor langt skal du uten motorsykkel? ... de syns nok jeg er et veldig merkelig fenomen. Veien fører ut til en liten fisker-landsby som ligger på sandbanken utenfor flyplassens rullebane. Jeg løp gjennom denne lille landsbyen da min oppmerksomhet ble fanget av en skrikende gutt. Han lå i skyggen av et lite skur mens en kvinne slo ham med et sopelime. Jeg stoppet og gikk over til den lille gutten som raskt ble etterlatt til seg selv gråtende i skyggen. Han gråt voldsomt. Da jeg satte meg ned for å trøste ham, skjønte jeg at han ikke var som alle andre barn; han var en funksjonshemmet liten gutt. Jeg begynte å synge for ham ... en norsk godnatt-vise ... den eneste jeg kunne huske akkurat da. ..da begynte han å gråte enda mer. Flere barn stimlet rundt oss ... enda en funksjonshemmet gutt kom og klamret seg til meg. Et av barna som kom; en gutt som ville bli kalt Jackson, snakket bra engelsk. Han fortalte meg at de to funksjonshemmede guttene er brødre. Og han som ble slått, hadde stjålet en tomat fordi han var sulten.
Jeg forsto at denne historien har flere nyanser, den er dypere enn hva man ser på overflaten. Som min kjære mor alltid sier: "Det finnes alltid en grunn"
Den lille gutten som snakket engelsk, Jackson, viste meg veien til guttens mor. Hun så veldig sliten ut. Hun hadde gjort et forsøk på sette opp håret sitt i noen fletter samtidig som hun stod bøyd over en enorm klesvask. Hun var svært medtatt, og deres lille hjem; ja jeg er ganske sikker på at ingen av dere ikke engang ville plassert sykkelen deres der over natten. Det var et lite lite skur av grove planker med masse hull i både veggene og taket. Hun hadde ingenting, men hun hadde sine fire gutter, to av dem funksjonshemmede. Og alle skulle jo egentlig ha mat hver dag, og kanskje litt klær, og transport til skolen, og et lite stykke såpe slik at de kunne få seg et bad…
Jeg satte meg ned og snakket med dem.
ENGLISH
I stopped.
I was out on my daily run. This morning I was running the long run around the airfield. This run goes passing through a dusin of police and army check points before it stretches out along the airfield. The police and army men are so surprised every time I pass them; are you running? are you going far?…they think I am very strange.
The road leads to a tiny little village settled on the sandbank alongside the airfield. I was running through it when my attention was caught by a screaming boy. He was laying in the shadow of a little shed while a woman was beating him with a brom.
I stopped and I walked over to the little boy left alone in the shadow. He was crying. I sat down to comfort him then I realised he was not like all other children. He was a disabled little boy. I started singing for him…a Norwegian lullaby …the only one I could remember right then. ..he started to cry even more.
Some children came gathering around us…another disabled boy came and clinged around my neck. One of the children, a boy who wanted to be called Jackson, spoke good english. He told me that the two disabled boys are brothers. And the one who were beaten had stolen a tomato because he was hungry.
I understood that this story is not a shallow one.
As my dear mom always tells me: “there is always a reason”
The little boy who spoke english, Jackson, showed me the way to the boys mother. She looked so tired and she was trying to put her hair into something like braids at the same time as she was doing the laundry. She looked like a mess…and their little home was less than a place any of you would place your bicycle overnight. It was a tiny little shed with plenty of wholes in the walls and a leaking roof.
She had nothing
But she had her 4 boys, 2 of them disabled. And all of them should have food every day, (where supposed to be fed) and maybe some clothes, and transportation to school, and a little piece of soap so they could have a bath.
I sat down and talked with them.
Jeg stoppet.
Jeg var ute på min daglige løpetur. Denne morgenen hadde jeg bestemt meg for en rolig langkjørings-økt rundt flyplassen. Denne turen går forbi et dusin av politivakter og militære kontrollposter før den strekker seg ut langs rullebanens gjerder.
Politiet og soldatene er like overrasket hver gang jeg løper forbi dem; løper du? hvor skal du? hvor langt skal du uten motorsykkel? ... de syns nok jeg er et veldig merkelig fenomen. Veien fører ut til en liten fisker-landsby som ligger på sandbanken utenfor flyplassens rullebane. Jeg løp gjennom denne lille landsbyen da min oppmerksomhet ble fanget av en skrikende gutt. Han lå i skyggen av et lite skur mens en kvinne slo ham med et sopelime. Jeg stoppet og gikk over til den lille gutten som raskt ble etterlatt til seg selv gråtende i skyggen. Han gråt voldsomt. Da jeg satte meg ned for å trøste ham, skjønte jeg at han ikke var som alle andre barn; han var en funksjonshemmet liten gutt. Jeg begynte å synge for ham ... en norsk godnatt-vise ... den eneste jeg kunne huske akkurat da. ..da begynte han å gråte enda mer. Flere barn stimlet rundt oss ... enda en funksjonshemmet gutt kom og klamret seg til meg. Et av barna som kom; en gutt som ville bli kalt Jackson, snakket bra engelsk. Han fortalte meg at de to funksjonshemmede guttene er brødre. Og han som ble slått, hadde stjålet en tomat fordi han var sulten.
Jeg forsto at denne historien har flere nyanser, den er dypere enn hva man ser på overflaten. Som min kjære mor alltid sier: "Det finnes alltid en grunn"
Den lille gutten som snakket engelsk, Jackson, viste meg veien til guttens mor. Hun så veldig sliten ut. Hun hadde gjort et forsøk på sette opp håret sitt i noen fletter samtidig som hun stod bøyd over en enorm klesvask. Hun var svært medtatt, og deres lille hjem; ja jeg er ganske sikker på at ingen av dere ikke engang ville plassert sykkelen deres der over natten. Det var et lite lite skur av grove planker med masse hull i både veggene og taket. Hun hadde ingenting, men hun hadde sine fire gutter, to av dem funksjonshemmede. Og alle skulle jo egentlig ha mat hver dag, og kanskje litt klær, og transport til skolen, og et lite stykke såpe slik at de kunne få seg et bad…
Jeg satte meg ned og snakket med dem.
ENGLISH
I stopped.
I was out on my daily run. This morning I was running the long run around the airfield. This run goes passing through a dusin of police and army check points before it stretches out along the airfield. The police and army men are so surprised every time I pass them; are you running? are you going far?…they think I am very strange.
The road leads to a tiny little village settled on the sandbank alongside the airfield. I was running through it when my attention was caught by a screaming boy. He was laying in the shadow of a little shed while a woman was beating him with a brom.
I stopped and I walked over to the little boy left alone in the shadow. He was crying. I sat down to comfort him then I realised he was not like all other children. He was a disabled little boy. I started singing for him…a Norwegian lullaby …the only one I could remember right then. ..he started to cry even more.
Some children came gathering around us…another disabled boy came and clinged around my neck. One of the children, a boy who wanted to be called Jackson, spoke good english. He told me that the two disabled boys are brothers. And the one who were beaten had stolen a tomato because he was hungry.
I understood that this story is not a shallow one.
As my dear mom always tells me: “there is always a reason”
The little boy who spoke english, Jackson, showed me the way to the boys mother. She looked so tired and she was trying to put her hair into something like braids at the same time as she was doing the laundry. She looked like a mess…and their little home was less than a place any of you would place your bicycle overnight. It was a tiny little shed with plenty of wholes in the walls and a leaking roof.
She had nothing
But she had her 4 boys, 2 of them disabled. And all of them should have food every day, (where supposed to be fed) and maybe some clothes, and transportation to school, and a little piece of soap so they could have a bath.
I sat down and talked with them.
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