They raised them for years and one day they are fetched away. They can't breath anymore. A cry, a loud cry, then the songs of sorrow, touching. Tears stream from their eyes, unstoppable. It's wrong to compare this pain with the pain of loosing a child, it's different.
Hope is drawn from the smallest of signs.
The hope never disappears. Still, there are those who expect them to do so. The photos in their hands, the flowers in their clothing, the white headbands are seen as a crime. They are beaten, dragged across the floor, brought to torture chambers, maybe the same ones where their sons, their daughters, their husbands were taken to. They want them to stop, they shouldn't search anymore, they must forget.