A Pure, High Note of Anguish
By BARBARA KINGSOLVER
Barbara Kingsolver's most recent novel is "Prodigal Summer"
September 23 2001
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.
"That this war is senseless seems now beyond doubt. There were many ways of dealing with Saddam Hussein and this was the worst."
Bombs Bring Only Pain and Terror
By Joanne Grady Huskey of Bethesda, MD
Friday, April 4, 2003; The Washington Post Page
A21
I am horrified as I read in the newspapers about the Iraqi families who have been bombed in their homes by the United States and who are reeling from the shock. I am immediately thrust back to the moment in 1998 in Nairobi, Kenya, when I was in the basement of the U.S. Embassy with my two small children and we were bombed by al Qaeda cohorts of Osama bin Laden.
I remember the moment of impact when I was thrown to the floor in darkness, stunned by a phenomenon I had never before witnessed, just as Iraqi mothers and fathers are stunned today. I remember searching desperately for my children on the floor in that dark basement, screaming to find out if they were alive. I remember finding them and holding them, while all around me people who were wounded were calling out. I remember stumbling to find my way out of the embassy, crawling through the rubble and confusion and fire. I remember the fear and the feeling that this is what hell must be like. I remember burying my friends and mourning our loss, as Iraqi families are doing today. I remember that I, like those in Iraq now, just didn't understand.
How could such an act of inhumanity happen, I wondered in my sorrow and confusion. The Iraqi people, caught in their own homes while minding their own business, must be asking the same question.
My conclusion after being attacked in Nairobi was that we Americans had every obligation to bridge the gap of misunderstanding and to try to communicate and learn about the anger directed at us. Being the wife of a diplomat, I felt that diplomacy was needed more than ever, to open up dialogue and find resolution to our conflicts with people in Muslim nations. I felt that not only formal diplomacy but also informal diplomacy, the kind that I and other Americans living abroad pursued every day, was of utmost importance if we were ever to begin to find a way toward solutions to our misunderstandings. We had to meet and know each other and begin to talk.
After the attacks on our nation on Sept. 11, 2001, we could either have learned a lesson -- that we desperately need to work with other nations to find a way to understand each other -- or we could have taken revenge, using the same tactics that were used against us.
Our president, who himself has never lived in another country, decided that the way to stop all this terror and anger directed at our country is to bomb Iraq. Rather than expanding our diplomatic efforts, we stopped them, in favor of bombing. We resorted to bombs and military attacks in an all-out effort to stop the hatred against our people.
But I am certain that bombs only exacerbate anger and pain and confusion and terror, and it grieves me to see that we are doing to other innocent people exactly what was done to us in 1998. You are wrong, Mr. President, if you think this will heal the anger against us. You are wrong, Mr. Rumsfeld, if you think you can bomb away terror. You are wrong, Mr. Cheney, if you think this will all be over soon.
As a member of one family that survived a bomb, I can tell you from the bottom of my heart: Bombing will never be the solution. Do you think the Iraqi families you are bombing today are going to get up and thank you and want to know more about our great country? You are wrong.