Home, they say

I'll be a little surprised if anyone still reads this, considering everything is over and everything else is just beginning. It's weird being back in the place you grew up after being gone a long time, because everything has changed, and yet nothing has. People ask me how it feels to be home, and I never know how to answer. I can't say I'm not home, because I am. But Mexico felt like home too, for a while, and I haven't lived here in so long anyway that I have to find where I fit here again too. And so I smile and say, "OK I guess", not really answering the question they are not really asking, and we go on with whatever we were doing. But it's alright because I'm busy and so I can forget this in-between feeling.
There is a refugee camp in Kenya with over 10 million people in it. This is a problem. More are arriving every day. This is happening. Now. But what can I do? I hear this and I can't anymore justify eating three meals a day. How do I justify having so many clothes when there are people, when I have met people, who have one set? You could say it's cultural. But I have a terrible feeling that we are doing something terribly wrong. To know what you ought to do and not do it is also a sin. I'm wondering how long I can keep shutting out this cry for justice that I am hearing. This knowledge that something in me has to change. This idea that I have to do something. But what? They say ignorance is bliss. But I am no longer entirely ignorant, and therefore I cannot blissfully ignore the cries of the people who no longer talk.