[wordup] a pure, high note of anguish

[Adam Shand]

read this.  okay?

Via: Brett Shand <brett at earthlight.co.nz>
Via: Rob Sexton <rob at s2design.com>
From: http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-000076228sep23.story?coll=la%2Dnews%2Dcomment%2Dopinions

This Sunday LA Times op ed piece by Barbara Kingsolver (Poisonwood Bible
author) is the most poignant and beautifully written piece we have read.

PERSONAL PERSPECTIVE

A Pure, High Note of Anguish

By BARBARA KINGSOLVER, Barbara Kingsolver's most recent novel is "Prodigal
Summer."

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.