Not giving up on the human kind

Here I go again, doing what even the strong won't do, when I am not strong.

When will I stop attempting the impossible, when will I stop following my 'just try' instinct and stop right there before I start to 'kesian' people who themselves did wrong to themselves.

I can't do this. (for now?)

I did not judge.  I did not judge my friend or the son.  I just took it upon myself to help.

There he was, living so badly. Even Shu-shu our cat has it better then him.  And he is a human.  A young man. Living a hopeless life, so hopeless that the only way he knows is to extort his mother, yelling, threatening and scaring her for money, and this poor nice lady, just hangs on, not knowing what to do or how to escape this life with her son.  Worse, she too was losing hope.

Then this writer wannabe comes into the picture with the best of intentions, thinking she saw a speck of  hope in this human being that maybe, maybe, he could change if given a chance, an intervention so that  he is able to unearth in his heart a believe in himself that he can change, since she believes he deserve a chance. So believe upon believe,  I employed him to paint our little flat in Shah Alam.

Two months went by.  He followed all my instructions. His mother was amazed. I was amazed at  myself.  I thought I was a whisperer for the mentally ill or something.  He actually worked. He actually painted the house and painted nicely.  All light grey and even. He even went to the mosque on Fridays.

I would drive him to the flat with his mum, give him all that he needed, food, water, chocolates,  Gardenia bread.  I bought all sorts of painting stuff, pretending I know the works when I actually know little.

So he stayed in the flat while he painted, which made me feel I have used my providence from Allah to put a roof over his head, since he sleeps outside in the porch at his house.  He is not allowed inside since he was destructive. He had smashed so many windows that all that is left are the wooden frames  and panel doors , but no glass.

So much for that, it all ended with a friend.

That day when he called me to say he had brought a friend to help.  A friend who knows how to paint. To teach him.  A clean friend. When I went to send him the daily wages, the friend looked normal.

The next day was his visit to the hospital, so it was his off day.

The next morning when I came to pick him up, he was as high as any addict could get, stoned to death, eyes barely open, gibbering nonsense and yelling at his mother.

He had only a door to paint.  The maroon colour door. All was done. He took longer than others but he still did a good job. The flat is all bright and cheery.

The friend was not a friend.

 The police came and took Bahrain to the mental hospital.

What does it take to change a person?  Is giving a chance ever enough?    Is it always better to look then walk away?  No one cares, and does that mean you should not too? Its hard this kindness act that we should strew our way.  I guess it takes much more. Doctors, police,  rooms with iron bars.  With attendants and guards in tow.

What was I thinking?