City Without Hate

An old man stood quietly. As with many older men, his glasses were quite thick and his white hair a little thin. He was peering into a tiny world — an entire city made of wood and clay. Miniature houses no bigger than his palm. Trees with leaves the size of grains of sand. Little people frozen mid-wave. Canals with toy boats. And a train, no longer than a pencil, gliding silently through stations.

“Wow,” said a voice beside him.

He turned, surprised. A girl was also peering at the city.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Oh, I love it! How did they even make all this?”

The old man smiled. “Piece by piece. Every building is a perfect copy of a real place — the airport, the football stadium, even the cheese market. Artists and engineers worked together for years. Even children helped. Every tiny roof tile, every lamppost, every bicycle was placed with care.”

The girl leaned in closer. “Even the people look real! That guy’s taking a selfie! And look — the train has little luggage carts!”

“Do you know that there are over five thousand tiny people in this city,” the man said proudly. “Some are riding bikes through cobblestone streets. Others are playing soccer, loading planes, or eating pancakes by the canal.”

She giggled. “It’s like a dollhouse for the whole world.”

The old man nodded. “I come here every Sunday. I sit quietly and imagine the city coming to life. Over there,” he pointed to a café by the water, “a man is falling in love for the first time. At university, a woman is inventing a pill that lets people fly. And in that stadium—” he pointed to a crowd of miniature fans waving scarves, “that team just won their first championship in a hundred years.”

The girl squinted at him. “You’re just making that up.”

He winked. “I call it Ciudad Sin Odio. That means City Without Hate.”

“Why that name?”

The man’s voice grew softer. “My family name is Maduro. This city was built in memory of my cousin, George Maduro. He was from Curaçao — a Caribbean island full of music, sunshine, and kindness. George believed in helping people.”

“What was he doing here?” the girl asked.

“During a terrible time — World War II — he joined the resistance in the Netherlands. He fought against hate. But he was captured and sent to a place called Dachau, a prison camp where many innocent people were taken. George didn’t survive. Millions didn’t.”

The girl’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The old man nodded. “When the war ended, the world moved on. But I couldn’t. I was just a boy, but I carried anger with me. It felt like a storm inside me.”

“I know that feeling,” said the girl.

He looked down at her. “My father once told me, ‘To hate is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die.’ And he was right. Hatred is a thief. It steals time. And it doesn’t fix anything.”

He took a breath and smiled — a soft, wise smile. “So I let go. And I began to live again. That’s when we started building this place — to honor George, yes, but also to imagine what a new world look like without hate.”

The girl gazed at the tiny city. Sunlight poured through the window, making it glow like a fairytale.

“I think George would’ve loved it,” she said.

“I think so too,” the old man replied.

They stood together for a long while — each imagining their own little story in this miniature city.