A man sits alone, gaping into the eyes of a stranger, a stranger whose eyes have seen more than those of the man who appears before him As he stares deeper into those eyes -- those eyes that have lost sleep over the images of emaciated bodies, of men and women wandering among corpses desperately trying to find a father, a sister, a lover, a daughter, or a friend -- he sees the eyes of a child, a child who has seen what hunger, and torture, and hate can do to human beings. And as he turns from those eyes, those eyes that pierce his soul and cause a single stream of tears to rush down his face, something draws him back and the man realizes that those eyes, they are his own. Heather Goodman
By David Lebensfeld