I can’t look. Within the first two minutes I seen my share of blood, watching as the slaves aboard the Amistad fight to free themselves, taking anything sharp and attacking their captors. There is a brutality that was so common in the days of the middle passage, the world wars and many other events. Yet these brutalities have been shielded from me. I don’t have to see what’s playing on the screen to know a man is dying a slow and painful death. I don’t have to understand the words of an abused african man to know that he is angry and ready to take the life of another.
I am in awe of the English man who dares to take a stand for those who are seen as less than human. I am amazed when the English man gets on his knees, drawing in the sand, trying desperately to understand where the africans have come from.
I don’t understand why, why the color of a man should make him any more or less of a human being. They were put to shame, their dignity stripped off them, and their bodies horribly assaulted. To think that God, the Father and Creator of mankind of every color and race saw, He saw how his gift of free will was abused.