My last full day in Bonaire I rented a truck and drove through the north part of the island. As I was making my way toward Rincon, and then Washington Slagbaii National Park, I eased through Gotomeer. The narrow, one-lane road hugged the shore of a lake where flamingos waded along with other shore birds. It was beautiful with cactus lining the rocky landscape.

As I drove past a tiny island, I noticed the fence and shelter had been improved from last year. In fact, each year it seems to get more fortified and improved.

After passing it, I came upon an elder. His dark skin glistened in the heat and he motioned for me to stop. Yes, I was alone with few other humans around and yes, I had a backpack full of expensive Nikon photography equipment, part of which was laying on the seat beside me. But locals get rides from anyone who is willing to stop and give them a lift. I didn’t feel any fear as the man wasn’t carrying anything and was most likely in his 80’s. As a visitor to Bonaire, I have given rides to locals before and they are always very appreciative.

Before getting into the backseat of the four-door truck he asked if I was Dutch. “No,” I replied. “Do you speak Dutch?” he asked. “No, sir. I don’t speak Dutch.” “So…you don’t speak any Dutch?” he asked again. “No,” I answered.

He climbed in the backseat opposite me and shook my hand. His firm grasp was friendly and I knew it was right to stop and give him a lift into the small town, not far ahead.

He asked if I was American. I responded with a ‘yes.’ He told me he liked Americans and they always treated him well. Without any prompting he started telling his life story…or a bit of it.

Born on the island many years ago, he was subjected to forced Dutch schooling where the native children were not allowed to speak their own language and had to learn Dutch. He told me how difficult it was but it wasn’t so much the words he spoke as the way he spoke them that disclosed his lingering wound. I could feel his pain and struggle and sensed that he still carried distrust of the Dutch settlers who forced their rules onto local, native residents.

I knew of the Cherokee and other native tribes experiencing this sort of abuse in the United States but I had never met anyone who experienced it. Recently I watched a film called, Rabbit Proof Fence, about two Aboriginal girls who escaped from such a school in Australia. It was profoundly moving and gave me a better understanding of this kind of prejudice.

We soon arrived in Rincon. In holding John’s (not his real name) hand–as he thanked me and wished me a good day–I said a silent prayer and blessing for him and all native people who endured such prejudice and abuse. I also asked forgiveness for humanity’s capacity for cruelty.

We need to hear their stories and they need to see that we are listening, paying attention and understanding the mistakes that were made and most likely continue to be made somewhere on the planet.