What are we doing, God?

Quietly at the back of my class,
He sat, I never spoke to
The boy who shared that same space,
All those years, that same "Muslim" space
Whereafter he moved on, looking for work,
And his mother died and he was alone,
With himself and himself and the alcohol
And then the dagga and himself and the hunger
And just the person who sat at the back of the class
And now he is still at the back,
I with my parents and my comforts and myself
And one self is more equal than another
And all wrongs are more equal
And this sears me as much as the
Cold blooded Israeli murders
And what are we doing wrong here
What are we doing, God?