End of war ≠ peace…
Today, someone asked me if I was happy that the war in Ukraine might soon be over (as it seems now). I answered the question as follows:
Imagine someone breaks into your home and even takes over half of it. That half is turned into a complete mess—walls are torn down, electrical wiring is ripped out, and the place is completely trashed. Not only that, but the intruder moves in. Wow!
Meanwhile, in the half where you still live, they smash all your windows, tear up your driveway, pull all the plants out of the ground, and cut the power lines several times a week. Oh, and they blast LOUD music, so you can’t sleep. Your mother couldn’t take it anymore and moved into a caravan in another town.
After years of trouble (calling it a “hassle” would be an understatement), someone from Timbuktu—who has absolutely nothing to do with your home, since you live in the Netherlands—steps in and decides that the intruder/squatter is allowed to stay in your house, keep all the stolen belongings, and, in return, they will turn the music down a bit. Problem solved, right?
Oh, and if you want, you’re allowed to stay in your own house. But only if you promise never to call the police again and never try to remove the squatter. Because, hey, fair is fair—the squatter did turn down the radio.
Imagine accepting that proposal… Does that sound like a peaceful solution you could live with? A situation your mother would want to return to?
Does it sound like peace, manipulation, blackmail, justice, injustice, war, reason, madness, coercion, fair negotiation…? What would you call it if this were about your home? And would the squatter truly be happy with this “solution”?
The end of war is still far, far from peace… The house is destroyed, the squatter still “lives” next to you, and I don’t think my mother would want to come back. And what will we do with her in a year? Send her back to her “safe,” broken, squatted house with no windows??? Really?
So what do I think? Honestly, I have no idea—but it doesn’t sound like a peaceful plan to me. Then again, continuing like this isn’t much of an option either… What a world.
So what do I think? Well… I don’t know what to think. But I am glad it’s not my house… and I hope and pray it never becomes my house… And I feel sorry for “my mother,” because I can already see where this is going—back you go into your broken home, with your squatter still there. “It’s peace,” someone from Timbuktu arranged it for you. Be grateful and move along?
