Nothing satisfies human greed. It is impossible to expect wiseness, goodness and compassion on the part of those who are dedicated to the production and sale of weapons of destruction.
The children from many countries, who have lived their recent history punished by war, do not know. They do not have enough elements of judgment to understand and judge.
But they do know they are hungry. They are afraid. That their parents died and that they no longer live with them. That scares them the night. That they can no longer go out to play the rag ball as they liked to do.
Because they no longer have legs.
They were taken by the air a burst, which emerged from under the earth, the last time they hit a ball.
The elders had warned them that it was not prudent to play outside the courtyard of the family home. But the curiosity of the children and their eagerness of open space can always more than a justified order of confinement.
The war continued to shoot. And the children wanted to continue playing.
The war did not stop at the limit of its fields. He entered further. He reached the door of his family spaces. And he waited for them - buried in tiniebla - because I knew that, sooner or later, children would fall into their possession.
And they fell. One after another. As, before, their parents had fallen.
The parents were killed. The children left almost dead and legs.
Voluntary hands lifted them from their blood and deposited them in collection fields. Where they cured and fed them. And they struggled to give them strength and hope.
The older ones explained that, from now on, they would be responsible for their younger brothers. Because they could no longer choose another paper. The war had decapitated any other possibility.
From my love and from my anger I told them that I wanted to photograph you.
The children, full of innocence, raised their invalid brothers of the ground, were in front of the camera and were still. Very still
Without saying a single word, they dragged me, with their gaze, to a top of immense pain.
I photographed and cried. While his eyes, fixed on me, told me his story.
Pepe Navarro
