Questions

I consciously decided to not write about politics on this weblog; there are so many who can think and write about it better than I.  I know, I read them.

But I find it more and more difficult to think about anything but the war, and to write about anything at all. In some ways I am more shaken by Abu Ghraib than I was by 9-11, when the city my brother loved was so devastated. Again I am preoccupied with the problem of -- not so much why bad things happen to good people -- as how good people can do, and endorse, evil. And the reminder that righteous conviction is no safeguard.

The Agonist points me to this, which I find interesting not so much because of the specifics it discusses, but because of the underlying point: that our view of events is filtered by our politics. That is, by our beliefs about who has, and who should have, power.

Is the young woman in those photographs more guilty than the men because she betrays all we expect of women, compassion, empathy? Because she, as an inevitable consequence of her gender, should more easily understand the horror of sexual humiliation?

Or is she less guilty because this may have been her first experience with the seduction of sadism? Because she has likely been a victim of it herself? Because she had no comprehension of the power she owned in that situation?

I live my sheltered life in a shroud of guilt, of dis-ease. Am I more terrorized by those who hate me, or by what is done in my name? Or by the fear of what I could do, set down, as these young soldiers were, in a place of fear?

What I want to do is to make something powerful of these questions. To write something like this:

How even the holy cover their faces
(poem on the Sacrifice of Isaac)
       by Erin Noteboom

Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son. But the angel called to him from heaven, and said, "Abraham, Abraham!" And he said, "Here I am." He said, "Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me." And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. Genesis 22

Deanna Laney, called by God,
gave up her children. This is not a story. Testimony:

How she woke near midnight and took the oldest first
onto the lawn, how the sprinklers came on, how they ran
to the rock garden. How she had decided
on stones.

How the Lord put a stone at her feet as a sign,
how she put a stone in the crib
as a sign, how a baby's head fills the hand
like a stone, how sleep fills it with heavy
decision, how she woke near midnight
with her heart filled up and heard: it's time,
it's time --

How she heard it first when the baby
squeezed a frog, how gold its eyes bugged out
clear as a message. How he toddled to her,
stone in chubby offering. How his name
was Aaron. How her boys were Joshua, Luke,
and Aaron.

If the ministry of death, says the Word, came in glory,
how much more, then -- How God sent the ram.
How you can't see why, she testifies. You've just
got to. How in scripture, they say
Here I am.

How her boys were Joshua, Luke, and Aaron.
How she took the oldest first
into the garden. How she
smashed. How she pulled
the body by beloved feet
into the bushes. How she looked
for the ram. How her robe
and white pajamas. How her wet feet
and hands.

_______________________________________

UPDATE;  Read the comments, then go here.

Comments

[Erin]

>Or by the fear of what I could do, set down, as >these young soldiers were, in a place of fear?

I am almost ill with fear and rage and disgust over this.

But yes, that young woman haunts me. Because she *is* a woman, perhaps. Or because ... I don't know.

... I keep remembering, I met a widow once, whose husband had, as a very young man, fought in WWII Pacific. He came home, lived a sterling life by her account, life insurance agent, gentle and loving father to five boys. When he died she found his collection of human ears.

What to do with them. What to do with any of it. What any of us might do.

I'm glad you like the poem.

[Erin]

Belatedly I realize that is a poem. Put it up on my sight, just a real rough first draft. Thank you. I needed to say something, too.

[Account Deleted]

Bad things happen in life as the whole cosmic system is governed by inscrutable laws of Karma... as we sow so shall we reap... nothing less or more! If they were only happiness in life... all would become monotonous... meaningless! Only when we suffer... we understood true value of happiness... never otherwise!