My Grandmother, the wonderful, wise woman who raised me, was a refugee. She left her home town right at the end of WWI in 1918, when she was 17 years old.
Both of her parents had been killed during the war and there was no place to call home anymore. She left town with her sister Emma, who was just 2 years older.
“Hate” can be found on every corner these days, often accompanied by fear; it seems these two go hand in hand. Fear of the unknown, hate toward a stranger. “He can’t have what is mine”, like we all would be still sitting in a big sandbox building sand castles. “Don’t touch me,” “Don’t invade my space.” We do sound like children, what are we scared off?