A journey

I listened,
I listened to a dispute unfold and did nothing to prevent it (the so-called peace campaigner).
I saw fear,
I saw fear slowly rise to blind a child’s eyes yet did nothing to clear their vision (the proclaimed empowerer of the public).
I witnessed,
I witnessed a face contort with anguish yet lifted no finger to smooth the lines spoiling the youthful face of innocence (this from a children’s rights educator).
I followed,
I followed the fate of two people: one big, one small backed into an argument they could never win (where was my charitable hand out of the situation? Is that not our role as the benevolent middle class?)
I imagined,
I imagined the history of hurt feeding their fires of contempt and yet empathy wasn't enough to provoke me to intervene, (It appeared I had left it at the office along with my name badge and integrity).
I breathed,
I breathed like a fish under water; my mouth opened and closed trying to conjure the words that would diffuse the fight (my ‘excellent’ communication skills had somewhat escaped me).
I observed,
I observed while words were thrown like knives and yet I said nothing to deflect them (the supposed protector of the vulnerable).
I lied,
I lied to myself that help will come soon; the bus will stop and the argument will dissipate (the foolish illusion that white privilege creates); it didn’t come.
I waited,
I waited, desperately willing the conductor to appear at the top of the stairs (was this not their paid responsibility to care for those within the vehicle?); he didn’t appear.
I was stuck.
Stuck to my chair: my arms hung as heavy as paperweights gluing my hands against the seat.
I gazed,
I gazed in shock, my sheltered eyes fixated on this car-crash novella that entertained so many of the bystanders (for this was their chance to put right all that was wrong in the world).
I remained silent,
Silent; my lips pursed as if distain alone would bring their shouting match to an end.
End? This was only the beginning.
The battle cries grew louder and louder,
the crowd gathered to observe two lost soles destroy one and other (how sad to realize that this is all there was to fight for; two battered chairs and a forest of abandoned litter at their feet.)
Then my opportunity came: the opponents paused for air-
I took my chance and weaved myself around the chairs, the raised stick, the pointing fingers, clenched fists, scorning tongues, pools of tears, the vexed cries and looks of hatred, and fled to the safety of the ground floor.
“There’s an argument upstairs” I stuttered, (a pathetic description of the events playing out on the transiting vehicle)
“Let them argue,” was the driver’s response.
We had been unknowingly thrown into a chapter of Lord of the Flies.

Within this bus painted deep red to resemble a loving heart (yet as cold as a room painted blue inside), compassion had been forgotten,
As for my complicity, how can I forget my own self-imposed inertia? Is my heart so cold that it cannot be compelled to act? 
I had left the bus having done nothing to resolve the situation.

The waves of hindsight may carry an ocean of solutions, yet that day - when it mattered- I was stranded in a sea of inaction.

Inaction: lack of action where some is expected or appropriate.