But I’m not Hadza. So the trumpeting of all the elephants along the Rift Valley could never drown out the crying of all the children of Ukraine – no matter where I stood or where they fled. And so I sink a bit, unsure of how to breathe under this tsunami of sorrow. Maybe if we all thought of ourselves as human beings, like the Hadza, that could help. And maybe this Easter we could celebrate a different sort of death and resurrection: an Easter in which detachment and desecration are what die; and what is resurrected is, well, I don’t know. Just something better. Something heart-shaking and audacious. Something that maybe demands of us a moral courage we thought we never had. Something that might help tilt our world towards a greater compassion for all human beings, Hadza and not.
