webshells.com/nwuco Forum


Barbara Kingsolver re Sept. 11 2001
Author Barbara Misenti
Date 01/10/16/00:34
Hit Count 668

Sept. 11th 2001
by Barbara Kingsolver 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 away 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
others 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.

2001 Los Angeles Times

[View the list]


InternetBoard v1.0
Copyright (c) 1998, Joongpil Cho