In our despair that justice is slow we sit with heads bowed wondering how even whether we will ever be healed. Perhaps it is a question only the ravaged the violated seriously ask. And is that not now almost all of us? But hope is on the way. As usual Hope is a woman herding her children around her all she retains of who she was; as usual except for her kids she has lost almost everything. Hope is a woman who has lost her fear. Along with her home, her employment, her parents, her olive trees, her grapes. The peace of independence; the reassuring noises of ordinary neighbors. Hope rises, She always does, did we fail to notice this in all the stories they’ve tried to suppress? Hope rises, and she puts on her same unfashionable threadbare cloak and, penniless, she flings herself against the cold, polished, protective chain mail of the very powerful the very rich – chain mail that mimics suspiciously silver coins and lizard scales – and all she has to ...