She looks up peering from beneath her red cap revealing tired eyes.

She has made this journey so perhaps her children may not have to but, in the end, will there be such a guarantee?

Will her actions today evoke a metamorphosis in her small world and will in fact they even hear her tiny voice?

She is one of thousands to be sure but will the strength of many change the powers that be?

Yet she stays, remaining steadfast in her beliefs that even one such individual can make a difference.

She sits still in the squalor of the crowd where, the pungent, odors of stagnant bodies begins to rise.

Though food and water are plentiful, human hygiene and cleanliness are not.

She is carried away momentarily by the amplified voices of passionate people professing revolution.

She knows this feeling all too well. Will this be their time to witness something new or, like before, will these ideas simply implode.

It is a waiting game of who gives in first. The stronger stance will win and advance.

She is sure, as she sits in her red cap and red shirt that her side will stay strong. After all, their plight cannot afford to fail.

Days pass and people soon begin to pack belongings, placing their political commitments at the bottom of their bags.

She too must leave to go back home to fulfill her obligations to a husband, children, parents and working the family farm.

Even more time has passed now and the mission has given way to violent acts.

21 deaths, 863 injured all in the name of seeking a new possibility, a new way of life.

She is all too aware of the sacrifices made both by herself and by others too.

And with that, for the moment, she folds the shirt, carefully placing it in the appropriate box.