The initial question.
The reasons we participated.
The preparation for an interruption which wasn’t really.
The long ride, trading sentences and looking out and catching up.
The nervousness of being surrounded by people so different and so similar.
The mumbling that became words which turned into songs.
The string of cameras and the open streets.
The rhythmic stamping of our feet.
The commitment to stay.
The commitment to stay together.
The rumbles of thunder.
The hard-won meal in a hurry.
The symbols of darkness and light.
The gas masks, water bottles, and signs.
The jumping and chanting and watching and waiting.
The circles of prayer, the clusters of pain.
The playful way we wondered what in the world we were the doing.
The amplified voice of that one man commanding them, not us, to leave.
The joking. The questions. The long silence. The disgust-filled prayers.
The heavyset, sweating leader we stood with and for.
The shock to our bodies from the weight of the evening.
The words of that one sister, the missionary, who checked us all.
The stark contrasting pictures of justice.
The greetings and the welcome words.
The shaking of our heads and the wringing of our hearts.
The long, aching journey home.
The stars, bright like flashes, overhead in the darkness.