This is a political post.

If interested please scroll down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trump regime has been all out in demonizing immigrants.

But…immigrants created America.

And immigrants made America strong.

Trump even married two immigrants.

Trump said he was only going to deport criminal immigrants. But that is not true. His evil regime is rounding up swaths of people with no concern or effort to find out if they have a criminal record. Even US citizens have been grabbed and taken away.

This following happened in Chicago, where ICE swarmed a 5-story apartment building and hauled out every tenant. In the middle of the night. Children were handcuffed. Yes, children.

And remember the Trump regime blowing up boats off the coast of Venezuela? Trump claims these are drug dealers intent on harming America, although the regime has not provided a shred of evidence to support this. However, we now have reports of wives in Venezuela wondering why their husbands, who went fishing, have not returned.

Husbands murdered. Fathers murdered.

In Florida, the already infamous Alligator Alcatraz has vanished 1800 people. Nobody knows where they are or what happened to them. The town I live in has 450 people. So, people four times the size of my town has been disappeared.

This is what happened in Nazi Germany. Are you OK with this happening in America?

 

 

In contrast to this horror I came across the following story. I do not know the author. It made me tear up. I think it will warm your heart.

 

Things That Make You Think

The first time I found the wire cut, I grabbed my rifle. The second time, my toolbox. The third time, I just brought a gallon of water.

My name is Arthur. I’m 73, and I farm the same dust-bowl patch in Arizona my grandfather did. It’s a quiet life, punctuated only by the hum of my old Ford and the angry voices on the talk radio. They talked a lot about the border, about the “invasion.” For a long time, their anger was my anger. My fence, a simple four-strand barbed wire affair, was my line in the sand. My property. My country.

Every Tuesday, like clockwork, I’d find it: a neat snip in the wire near the old mesquite grove at the far end of my property. The first time, I saw red. I imagined thieves, vandals. I sat on my porch with my Winchester across my lap until the sun went down, but saw nothing.

The second Tuesday, I sighed, loaded my toolbox, and spent an hour under the blazing sun, stretching and stapling the wire back into place. Cursed them with every turn of the pliers. They were making my life harder. Didn’t they have any respect?

Then came the third Tuesday. I was out on the ridge, looking for a stray calf, my binoculars pressed to my eyes. I scanned past the broken fence and saw them. Huddled in the shade of the mesquite. A man, young, with shoulders slumped in exhaustion, and a little boy, no older than seven, who was leaning against him. The boy wasn’t crying. He was just still. Too still. The man held an empty plastic bottle, staring at it like it held all the answers.

The voices on the radio called them an invasion. A threat. But through my binoculars, all I saw was a father and his son. And they looked thirsty.

Something inside me snapped, but not in anger. It was a quiet, aching kind of break. I went back to the truck, drove home, and pulled a gallon jug of clean well water from my fridge. The next morning, before the sun was fully up, I drove out to the fence. I didn’t fix the wire. I just set the water down in the shade, right on the other side. Like I’d forgotten it there.

The next day, the water was gone. In its place, the two ends of the cut wire had been clumsily, but carefully, tied together with a strip of cloth from a t-shirt.

It became our silent conversation. Every few days, I’d find the wire cut. And I’d leave something behind. Not a handout. Just… things left behind. A bag of apples from my tree. Two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. An old pair of my grandson’s sneakers that he’d outgrown. I never fixed the fence right away. I’d give it a day or two.

When I’d come back, my offering would be gone, and the fence would be tied again. A small stack of smooth stones on the fence post one time. A single, wild desert marigold laid across the wire another time.

One night, a wicked storm rolled in, the kind that turns the dry washes into raging rivers. I sat in my chair, listening to the wind howl, and I didn’t think about my cattle. I thought about a father and a son.

The next morning, the ground was soft mud. I drove out, my heart pounding a little faster than usual. The fence was down in that section, flattened by the wind. And there, in the mud, were two sets of footprints walking away from it. Next to the post, etched into the wet earth with a stick, was a simple, perfect heart.

I never found the fence cut again.

Months later, a letter with no return address showed up in my P.O. box. Inside was a worn, folded photograph of that same little boy, smiling, standing in front of an elementary school. On the back, in careful handwriting, were three words.

“Gracias. Por el agua.”

Thank you. For the water.

The world is full of people shouting about building walls and drawing lines. But walls don’t stop desperation, and lines on a map don’t mean much to a thirsty child.

We’re told to pick a side. But kindness doesn’t have a side.

It turns out, the most powerful thing you can do isn’t to build a higher fence. It’s to leave a gallon of water on the other side, creating a little space for dignity to catch its breath.