The Factory of Compassion
There was once a vast land where misery stretched across deserts and war consumed cities. Children starved, mothers buried their sons, fathers prayed to silent skies. And the people of the rich kingdoms far away saw none of it. They turned their heads and said: It is sad, yes — but not our affair.
But then, a few travelers managed to cross oceans and mountains. Exhausted, they arrived at the gates of the rich kingdoms. And something miraculous happened: the gates opened. The poor were welcomed, clothed, and given bread.
Why? Because beyond the gates stood a factory.
Inside, clerks stamped papers, NGOs wrote reports, politicians gave speeches, and the whole machine whirred with purpose. The travelers were not just humans anymore — they became raw material. Their stories could be printed on posters, their presence could justify funding, their names could fill statistics.
In the wastelands, millions still starved. But they were invisible, because the Factory could not reach them. Their suffering produced nothing.
And so, the paradox lived on: those who suffered most were ignored, while those who arrived became priceless. Not for their lives, but for their function.
The factory grew bigger. And the rich kingdoms told themselves: We are good, we are just, we are compassionate.
But outside the gates, the deserts remained deserts, the wars burned on, and the dead stayed silent.