Bleeding heart

There is one thing that people need to know about me in order to say that they know me. It's my bleeding heart. My sister has the same type. Sometimes we act on the injustices we see, other times we just cry about them.

This heart is what has made us, since the age of being able to speak, force our Dad to change from the crowded, popular restaurant to the empty one, with bad food across the square, just because we imagine the owner being sad about not having any customers. We have also, through the years, made my Mum give beggars some money and then some more, made parents and friends invite weird neighbours over to parties, force strangers to take care of run-over birds, rats, mice and hedgehogs. If the animals are not dead, we've made scenes about not mercy killing them but instead taking their remains to the vet to be fixed.

This bleeding heart is also what makes my sister cry everytime her boyfriend leaves. As he works as a pilot, and hence leaves at least a couple of times a week, it is quite an inconvenient heart to have. I think she is handling it though. Her boyfriend as well. And if he isn't, then at least it's nice to know that your girlfriend is sad because you're leaving and not because you're coming home.

For my part, this heart is what makes me, quite often, seriously question what I am doing in Europe when there is so much to be done in developing countries. Every time I see a film or read a book about war-famine-drought-genocide in Africa, I want to give up everything I have here and go work for the UN. When I realise I'm too selfish to do that, I cry --

Or I have, up until yesteray when I saw the film 'Blood Diamond' with Leonardo di Caprio. It had all the necessary elements for my heart to start bleeding: an African country at war, desperation, horrific actions and a 'true' story. I didn't feel a thing. I wonder if it's because of the Hollywood bangbang-bloodsplash-runrun to hysterical music or because my heart has gone numb?

But this is easy to test. I'll just go looking for a café where an old man sits at a table. Alone. Eating cake. In his best Sunday-suit. That always does it for me.