Bu-lat-lat (boo-lat-lat) verb: to search, probe, investigate, inquire; to unearth facts Issue No. 34 October 7 - 13, 2001 Quezon City, Philippines |
A Pure, High Note of Anguish BY
BARBARA KINGSOLVER Back to Bulatlat.com Alternative Reader Index Tucson --- I want to do something to help right now. But I can't give blood (my hematocrit always runs too low), and I'm too far way to give anybody shelter or a drink of water. I can only give words. My verbal hemoglobin never seems to wane, so words are what I'll offer up in this time that asks of us the best citizenship we've ever mustered. I don't mean to say I have a cure. Answers to the main questions of the day--Where was that fourth plane headed? How did they get knives through security?--I don't know any of that. I have some answers, but only to the questions nobody is asking right now but my 5-year old. Why did all those people die when they didn't do anything wrong? Will it happen to me? Is this the worst thing that's ever happened? Who were those children cheering that they showed for just a minute, and why were they glad? Please, will this ever, ever happen to me? There
are so many answers, and none: It is desperately painful to see people die
without having done anything to deserve it, and yet this is how lives end nearly
always. We get old or we don't, we get cancer, we starve, we are battered, we
get on a plane thinking we're going home but never make it. There are blessings and wonders and horrific bad luck and no guarantees. We like to pretend life is different from that, more like a game we can actually win with the right strategy, but it isn't. And, yes, it's the worst thing that's happened, but only this week. Two years ago, an earthquake in Turkey killed 17,000 people in a day, babies and mothers and businessmen, and not one of them did a thing to cause it. The November before that, a hurricane hit Honduras and Nicaragua and killed even more, buried whole villages and erased family lines and even now, people wake up there empty-handed. Which
end of the world shall we talk about? Sixty years ago, Japanese airplanes bombed
Navy boys who were sleeping on ships in gentle Pacific waters. Three and a half
years later, American planes bombed a plaza in Japan where men and women were
going to work, where schoolchildren were playing, and more humans died at once
than anyone thought possible. Seventy thousand in a minute. Imagine. Then twice
that many more, slowly, from the inside. There are no worst days, it seems. Ten years ago, early on a January morning, bombs rained down from the sky and caused great buildings in the city of Baghdad to fall down--hotels, hospitals, palaces, buildings with mothers and soldiers inside--and here in the place I want to love best, I had to watch people cheering about it. In Baghdad, survivors shook their fists at the sky and said the word "evil." When many lives are lost all at once, people gather together and say words like "heinous" and "honor" and "revenge," presuming to make this awful moment stand apart somehow from the ways people die a little each day from sickness or hunger. They raise up their compatriots' lives to a sacred place--we do this, all of us who are human -- thinking our own citizens to be more worthy of grief and less willingly risked than lives on other soil. But
broken hearts are not mended in this ceremony, because, really, every life that
ends is utterly its own event--and also in some way it's the same as all others,
a light going out that ached to burn longer. Even if you never had the chance to
love the light that's gone, you miss it. You should. You bear this world and
everything that's wrong with it by holding life still precious, each time, and
starting over. And
those children dancing in the street? That is the hardest question. We would
rather discuss trails of evidence and whom to stamp out, even the size and shape
of the cage we might put ourselves in to stay safe, than to mention the fact
that our nation is not universally beloved; we are also despised. And not just
by "The Terrorist," that lone, deranged non-man in a bad photograph
whose opinion we can clearly dismiss, but by ordinary people in many lands. Even
by little boys --whole towns full of them it looked like--jumping for joy in
school shoes and pilled woolen sweaters. There are a hundred ways to be a good citizen, and one of them is to look finally at the things we don't want to see. In a week of terrifying events, here is one awful, true thing that hasn't much been mentioned: Some people believe our country needed to learn how to hurt in this new way. This is such a large lesson, so hatefully, wrongfully taught, but many people before us have learned honest truths from wrongful deaths. It
still may be within our capacity of mercy to say this much is true: We didn't
really understand how it felt when citizens were buried alive in Turkey or
Nicaragua or Hiroshima. Or that night in Baghdad. And we haven't cared enough
for the particular brothers and mothers taken down a limb or a life at a time,
for such a span of years that those little, briefly jubilant boys have grown up
with twisted hearts. How could we keep raining down bombs and selling weapons,
if we had? How can our president still use that word "attack" so
casually, like a move in a checker game, now that we have awakened to see that
word in our own newspapers, used like this: Attack on America. Surely,
the whole world grieves for us right now. And surely it also hopes we might have
learned, from the taste of our own blood, that every war is both won and lost,
and that loss is a pure, high note of anguish like a mother singing to any empty
bed. The mortal citizens of a planet are praying right now that we will bear in
mind, better than ever before, that no kind of bomb ever built will extinguish
hatred. "Will this happen to me?" is the wrong question, I'm sad to say. It always was. Back to Bulatlat.com Alternative Reader Index We want to know what you think of this article.
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