Left Hook: War

Wars are the milestones of human history. Wars mark beginnings. They also signal ends. As such, they chart our progression from one generation to the next, and so on… On our concept circle, war and peace are represented by a single point; they are two sides of the same coin. War is not the opposite of peace just as peace is not the opposite of war. Each is merely the (temporary) absence of the other. That is why war and peace can exist simultaneously – in different places; at different times; and within separate chambers of the human heart - each failing to appreciate the eternal presence of the other in what essentially amounts to a charade of willful delusion.

Some people wage war, while others wave peace signs. What protesters fail to see is that their placards proclaiming PEACE have “WAR” written on the on the backs of them. (No one alive is excused from a conflict that directly involves his/her immediate neighbors.) The difference lies in the consequences. Those fighting in the trenches are putting their lives on the line. They are the true heroes of any struggle. Those waving signs on the (America’s) home front risk nothing save being exploited by the enemy, which ultimately brands them quite rightly as traitors.

It might even be said that peace is a precondition for war; that peace itself foments the poisons that eventually force men into battle; that the lax chaos underlying outward tranquility allows for inequities to build, until these then must topple under their own weight. The laws of survival during war are far less forgiving after all.

Man is far too imperfect a being to determine his own destiny. Every human at some point succumbs to disease and dies. The cause of his death is almost always traced back to the way he has lived his life - some imbalance; some indiscretion; some repeated compulsion to top-off a perceived void - that ultimately sends him off into the next world. This is the human condition. How can any one of us - so attached to sensory comfort; so lacking in focus and self-control - be expected to chart the destinies of ourselves; our families, even; much less the destinies of corporations, nations – the world? It continues to be the duty of a higher power to unleash plagues; and, yes, wars when appropriate; to dispatch scalding siroccos across the land in order to disinfect it, make it clean once more, and give us all the opportunity for a fresh start.

And again we talk of duality. We try to ascribe bad decisions to bad results; good decisions to good results without necessarily appreciating the bias we thereby openly exhibit. We say the Buddha died from eating bad meat. It would never occur to us to say that the Buddha died of eating ‘good’ meat - or that he simply died (because his time was up). There must always be a cause. In the Buddha’s case it is said to have been meat - and now we proclaim ourselves vegetarian.

Some have sought to break the cycle of history by (the) diplomacy (of delay) or by outright appeasement. This has only lead to even greater disasters as evidenced by numerous past debacles. Success or failure in diplomacy eludes objective measurement (such as body counts) and can be manufactured to fit any template. The latest effort centers on a strategy termed 'containment'; allowing conflicts to fester in the hope that they will eventually go away. Clearly, so much discontent is currently being stoked the world over – such dearth of leadership; so many hearts aflame - it’s hard to know exactly where the firebreaks we’ve attempted to enforce will be breached first.

In human history one third is given over to war, while two thirds is given to peace (or the absence of war). War continues to be the domain of the young; the virile; the idealists. It is a tool meant to be grasped by those with the courage to pursue (or protect) a vision. Once one’s own vision has failed, the challenge is never far. One must either fight blind or yield. In the Hindu trinity, war is represented by Shiva (the destroyer) who is by far the most popular in the trinity of gods.

War is a wound that never heals. We are forever tempted to scratch it open for the fascination of watching it bleed. Even in peace, the memory of past wars continues to haunt us. Even in peace, the prospect of the next one is just over the horizon. That’s why we urge our populations to support armies that stand idle two-thirds of the time.
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ONE: Omi (Grandmother)

Only a short bit of cobblestone is visible from the third floor window of my prison cell. The rest of the view is marred by red roofs cutting randomly across an endless proliferation of stark, gray walls with windows in which the curtains are always drawn. Above this hangs the sky, suspended as if from a noose. It has become of primary interest to some of my mates who have learned to predict the weather with astounding accuracy.

I allow myself a few moments each day to survey this scene. For me, the sky is of little interest. Even when clear, it sprawls like a corpse atop its mother, smothering her under its foul weight. From my vantage point, only my visible section of cobblestone street remains immune to the stench of this place. It is there that I watch for the changing styles of which I am no longer a part.

Today it is raining. I see a small boy with bare knees skipping across my severely restricted view of freedom. The white fabric of his uniform shirt clings to his back. A book bag is carelessly slung across his shoulder. …and then he is gone.

I check my watch. It is still too early for school. I imagine him to be going to see his grandmother. He does so (usually after school) two or three times a week even though his mother has strictly forbidden it.

He would have gone yesterday, but it had been the day of the soccer match between our town and the next one just up the river. It has always been a great rivalry. No boy would have missed it, even for a grandmother’s chocolate bribes.

Still, it had been a sacrifice for the boy, tempered in part by the fact that our town had won the match in the final moments of the game. Today he would make up for it by getting there early to see if she needed anything. It is Wednesday, market day, when farmers from the surrounding hills set up their stalls in the square. Sometimes the old woman would send him out for vegetables. The boy knows it isn’t likely today, for she had not been feeling well and would not be inclined as to spend much time in the kitchen. Still, it would ease his conscience a bit to have made the effort. He takes a certain measure of pride in being the only one in his family to show decency to one who – for no reason he can fathom – is shunned by the rest.

It wasn’t until third grade that the boy even knew of his grandmother’s existence. He had fallen ill while at school. His teacher suggested that he be brought over to his grandmother’s house while efforts were underway to contact his mother. (The old woman lived just two short blocks away from the school.)

Within an hour’s time, his mother had come storming in, wordlessly gathered his things and brought him home by hired car. She made him promise never to go there again. She gave no reason. Her manner was such as to preclude further questioning. His father only shrugged and turned away when the boy asked him about it later.

The boy had been intrigued to find that he too had a grandmother. The other kids had them – grandfathers, too – kindly old people who sometimes knew things about which parents generally had no clue. He had gone back there as soon as he was well again, ostensibly to thank her. It was the proper thing to do despite what his mother might have thought. But he was also curious.

The old woman welcomed him with open arms. She had sweets for him - and toys. Curiosity gave way to genuine affection when he found her to connect with his own thoughts and feelings as few others could. By mutual, silent consent, the problem with mother was never broached.

Today he would bound up the rain-slick steps to the door of his grandmother’s house. He would knock repeatedly but no one would answer. Finally, he would take the key from under the mat and let himself in.

He is immediately struck by how cold it is in her rooms. An unseen presence seems to be roaming the house at will, touching everything at once - dust bunnies dance on floors; curtains wave; lamp shades sway.

The boy rushes to shut the windows one by one. Then he enters her bedroom. Here too, the windows are wide open. Papers lie scattered all over the room.

After the last of the windows has been closed, the customary quiet returns. In the half light the boy sees the old woman in her bed, deeply submerged in sleep.

“Omi, wake up! It is I, Uwe. I have come,” he whispers repeatedly close to her ear, but is afraid to touch her. Finally he quits, realizing that she would never hear him again.

The boy sits down beside her on the bed and cries. He knows it was the raw night air that had killed her. It was his fault, he thinks. Had he come yesterday, she would have asked him to shut the windows. She had been sick and couldn’t get up to do it herself; …but how did the windows get opened in the first place?

Slowly, the outlines of the room come clearer to his bloodshot eyes. At his feet lies a folded scrap of notebook paper. He picks it up absentmindedly, half meaning to toss it back under the bed, when he recognizes his mother’s hand(writing). It’s a shopping list. On it he reads the ingredients it took for her to prepare last night’s meal.

The boy runs his sleeves over his face. He gets up and goes into the sitting room where his electric train is set up. He begins by taking the tracks apart. Then, he reassembles all the straight sections, adding a single curved track at one end which allows him to electrify the rest. Now, he carefully sets his engine down on the curved piece.

Manning the controls, he tests his work by slowly running his engine end to end. It takes several passes and numerous track adjustments until he is satisfied that electricity runs smoothly throughout the system. Finally, he jams his controls on full throttle, sending the little engine roaring at full speed down the straightaway. When it reaches the end, he watches as it leaves the track and crashes into the wall, splintering a section of baseboard on impact. He retrieves the engine and tries it again; but, this time, the engine no longer works.

A number of his wind-up toys also lie about in the room. It is on these that he focuses next, taking each one in turn, winding it until the spring snaps. All the while, the expression on the child’s face betrays no emotion. He persists, as if driven, in rendering useless each of the things he had once loved.

Incredibly, after all has been destroyed, he reconstructs the room exactly as it had been. Even the wind-up key is put back in its proper place. In the end, any casual observer might have concluded that nothing had been touched; only, that a section of baseboard in the sitting room had somehow become damaged.

The boy returns to his grandmother’s side. He notes that she seems to be smiling. He goes over to the black trunk beside her bed and tries the lid. It is locked. He knows that she keeps the key under her pillow. He hesitates before reaching to feel around for it. He shudders, sensing the weight of her head on his hand. He is just about to withdraw when he touches the key with the tips of his fingers. He sweeps it out, sending it flying across the room. Finding it again, he unlocks the trunk and raises the lid.

It is nearly empty. A packet of faded photographs, secured with a rubber band, lies at the bottom along with various documents, yellowed with age. There is also a shoe box containing jewelry and a man’s pocket watch. Lastly, there is a leather purse containing a thick wad of bills.

The boy takes only the money and stuffs it into the pockets of his shorts. Then, after having put everything back just as it was, he closes the lid and locks it. He studies the key in his open hand before putting it with the money he had taken.

Just then, the church bell tolls eight times. School would be starting momentarily. The boy knows he should hurry. He checks the room once more for anything he might have missed. His eyes are no longer that of a child. He notes the several sheets of lead-colored stationary lying on the floor opposite the windows. He goes to gather them up. As was the case with the grocery list earlier, he recognizes his mother’s script. Though entirely legible, it is not written in a language he knows. Nevertheless, he decides to stash these in his book bag for possible future reference. Then he heads out into the morning, making certain that the front door is locked and the key is put back under the mat.

The rain has stopped. Already the wind has dried most surfaces. Only puddles remain to tell of the deluge earlier. There are no school-age children about. The boy will be late. Ordinarily this would worry him. His is a nation where being late for anything is taken as a sign of lax moral character. Consequently, punctuality was fervently promoted on all levels. It was not uncommon for a child to be beaten for arriving late at school.

Today, understandably, there are other things on the boy’s mind.


TWO

That boy was me some thirty odd years ago. Overnight, the rules that applied to my peers no longer applied to me. For one thing, judging by any standard, I was now quite wealthy. School was no longer important as a vehicle for eventually finding a well-paying job. For another, my mother’s authority over me had suddenly lifted. Never again was she to tell me outright what to do. Though, I must admit, there were times I could have used some guidance.

She seemed to suspect something, even without my breathing a word of my own suspicions, much less confronting her with the grocery list. She seemed resigned to leave her fate – and mine – in the hands of a child.

She died ten years later of unspecified causes. Barely six months after, my father died in an automobile accident. I didn’t go to either funeral. I traveled a lot because I could afford it. In city after city, I wore out my welcome with the arrogant nature I’d adopted. My problems would generally begin with the women I met. Invariably, fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins – entire families – would come out of the woodwork to pose their threats. Somewhere I left a son. It became a source of continuing amazement to me how quickly I could turn a whole town against me.

As time went on, I found it increasingly difficult to hang on to my money. My appetites were out of control. In one last, desperate effort to turn a profit, I invested all I had left in an illegal venture that would ultimately land me here. Every day since then, I have cursed the woman who put me here – my mother. May she rot ion hell!

Final Thoughts

One thing prison lets you do is think. I must have gone over it a thousand times, and it’s every bit like death itself: the barren landscape of my past stretching endlessly before me, as in a painting. And I am unable to go back and change even a single brush stroke.

I search the canvas for my son. But this only brings me face to face with yet another in a series of disappointments, each one leading to the next and so on, up to and including the present moment.

I have come to identify a pattern in my behavior which, never questioned, remained unchallenged. And so, the result from the beginning was never really in doubt. I traced this pattern to its conception and arrive back on the day on which I found my grandmother dead. How I wish now, I would have left that old trunk alone, for it marked the beginning of my fall from grace. As I have never doubted my mother’s guilt in the affair, it became all too convenient for me to blame her for all that would follow.

The mind is an indefatigable instrument. Left to its own devices, it will continue to erode the brittle fabric of delusion until only truth remains. Though reluctantly, I have come to accept responsibility for my own actions. And with it came the realization that I didn’t hate my mother nearly as much as I hated myself.

I know now that there are no beginnings; that each thing that happens is based on what came before. It is for this reason that I should have confronted my mother long ago. But there’s comfort in half-truths and hatred protects that which is easily hurt. And now it’s too late, for with death the paint defining human relationships dries and becomes permanent.

Curiously, I may always have held the key as to the truth behind Omi’s murder. To this day I’ve kept the letter my mother had addressed to her. I found it blowing around the room on the morning I discovered the body. For some unknown reason, I just never took the trouble of showing it to somebody who could have translated it for me – until yesterday. I asked a fellow here to take a look at it. He said he’d have it ready by this morning’s exercise period. I should know within the next few hours…

Somehow, I just can’t imagine it’ll make much difference, no matter what it says. I will, however, add it as a footnote to this writing in any case.1
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1 Dear Mother,

Imagine me calling you “dear” – or “mother”, for that matter – even as you’ve managed to make me into the stump of a woman I am today. I’m sure that the war had a lot to do with it. We’ve all suffered. But whereas some are uplifted by their pain and others are crushed, a few are reduced to a rare distillate of evil. You, dear mother, fall into the latter unfortunate category.

The evidence stacks up overwhelmingly against you. There’s more than enough to justify an indictment of this nature. While it is true that no court would convict you, God knows of your crimes and will judge you accordingly. Must I really remind you of the facts that condemn you?

When war broke out over the continent, it took our father first. He never returned but may still be alive somewhere, especially as his name never appeared on any of the long lists of the fallen. It may just be that he saw a chance to escape your lethal schemes and took it. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Then there was my poor brother, L. Being an only son he was not required to enlist. Yet you insisted he do so, using his sexual preference against him to drive your point. “Prove you’re a man,” you chided, adding, “There’s opportunity in war. You owe it to yourself to go out and bring back your share.” L. went and was killed within a month.

Then, when the enemy came knocking on our gates and we were advised to clear out or face the firing squads, we overloaded the wagons and headed west. We still had a long way to go when the horses died and we were forced to abandon everything – all, except that black trunk of yours which we continued to drag over the rutted roads and across the charred fields. When we were hungry, you hiked up my skirts for the men, and sometimes we ate.

We crossed several borders, dragging that old trunk on which I was made to dance until my feet bled.

Finally, we arrived here. The local population had been decimated; and those who survived were happy to accept the influx of strangers willing and able to work. With few exceptions, nobody had much to speak of. In this, everyone was equal – and that much was good. Partnerships were forged with the goal of rebuilding a nation. Friendships were formed, based on trust. It was utopia for a time until possessions would once again begin to build barriers between us.

It should have been a good time for us as well. But we were the exception. From the moment we arrived, it was obvious to all that we had money. You flaunted it at every turn. Our home was large enough to house ten families. You hired servants who stole from you and talked behind our backs. You sent me to school in clothes that were many times better than what the others could afford. I put on weight. None of my classmates would talk to me.

Later, you’d bring around men who drove motorcars. You scolded me for being deliberately dull. Finally, you tricked me into marrying the worst of the bunch. I understand he made his fortune during the war (like you expected L. to do) digging out the gold from the teeth of the dead. He abused me repeatedly and you always took his side. I intentionally aborted two pregnancies because I feared for the future of these children. Then he abandoned me.

When I met Martin, the bottle washer, I no longer cared. Somehow he fell in love with me and proposed marriage. I never loved him; that much was true. But, for the first time in my life, another human being treated me with kindness and respect. We were married despite your objections.

After Uwe was born, something extraordinary came over me. I felt stirrings I had thought no longer possible. And even in my now diminished state, I vow to use what strength I can muster to protect him from the madness of our generation.

May the good Lord forgive me!
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As none of us is ever entirely confident of the ways in which we seek to fulfill our individual destinies, all of us must grapple with guilt. Guilt is by far the heaviest burden any man can be asked to carry. Guilt is always plentiful. It is commonly traded like currency; and, like currency, its value floats according to what the market will bear. Beyond that, guilt is largely illusory, a ruse often raised in support of political ambition. It works because things are never simply black and white; seldom does one find a signed confession at the proverbial crime scene; seldom a suicide note. Only the artist is afforded the luxury of a guiltless enclave. As he commands total control of his space – the colors on his palette; the clay in his hands; his words on paper; etc. - he remains at liberty to fill in whatever uncertainties may arise with whatever he may be moved to show - while the rest of us remain in constant need of forgiveness.