July 10, 2014
I walked into my apartment, opened my laptop and the first story was there. Of a Malaysian Airlines flight shot down over the Ukraine. Images of a scarred landscape. Intense, manifest suffering.
I got up, put on the kettle, sat down. Felt utter panic. Stood up. Put on the radio.
After 30 minutes of radio, internet, and the shock in journalists voices, the tears came. Because this felt personal. As someone who grew up in Hong Kong, I flew with Malaysian Airlines to Europe countless times. That could have been my family. And a thought kept circling my mind: my people, my people, my people. The people of my world are hurting.
I finally turned everything off.
I walked into my apartment, opened my laptop and the first story was there. Of a Malaysian Airlines flight shot down over the Ukraine. Images of a scarred landscape. Intense, manifest suffering.
I got up, put on the kettle, sat down. Felt utter panic. Stood up. Put on the radio.
After 30 minutes of radio, internet, and the shock in journalists voices, the tears came. Because this felt personal. As someone who grew up in Hong Kong, I flew with Malaysian Airlines to Europe countless times. That could have been my family. And a thought kept circling my mind: my people, my people, my people. The people of my world are hurting.
I finally turned everything off.
