The young boy looking back at the photographer looks a lot like my nephew and for a second I could imagine that it was him.
Him kidnapped and beaten.
Him held prisoner for days.
And as much as the situation had affected me before, just taking that fear and pain and suffering that I felt while only imagining that it could have been my nephew, and knowing that it wasn't, I tasted the tiniest trace of the fear, pain, and suffering of those who's children it really was.
I look through the other pictures and see the young men full of fury and pride and fear and excitement and the mass hysteria that comes with crowds, and I feel inside me a weak echo of the range of emotions on their faces.
Especially the young man in the middle who is glaring so intently into the camera, as if ready to go around again, to face the worst possible outcome, and for what?
Because theres nothing left...?
I feel pride when I see them fight, when I see anyone fight, for freedom from oppression with the only possible weapons they have: their hearts, their minds, and their hands.
And I'm shaken to my very core.