Comprehension of human suffering

Rwandan Convicted of Genocide

When I read stories like this, I have a hard time getting past the image of the "well dressed man in a suit." This particular "man in a suit" has been sentenced to life in prison for genocide, crimes against humanity and war crimes. Somehow I can't wrap my mind around the thought that this prison sentence will atone for his crimes. Atonement to me comes in part with a sense of remorse. I see this man in a his nice suit and I can't help but think there is no possible way he will ever feel remorse for the gruesome brutality and suffering he has caused. There are a lot of points to make and thoughts to consider - like how things came to be the way they are. The events that led this man, the Hutu people, to commit genocide. I wonder what prison will be like for him. I'm really asking because I have no idea where convicted killers on such a scale go. I always just sort of put things like this out of my mind. But I wonder what happens when a man in a nice suit is sentenced for such crimes.

Also I know this has been said before but why is it that it's so much harder to feel a great loss and sadness and develop an understanding of suffering in regards to mass genocide as compared to the brutal death of one person? What is that disconnect so many of us have? Is it possible that maybe it is a condition of the human mind. That there is something biological protecting us against the comprehension of such massive grief and suffering? Just as we seek heat for warmth when it turns cold, does our mind dismiss unpleasant realities as a way of continuing our survival? Would we be too dumbstruck by grief if we were able to fully comprehend suffering on a major scale? When I was a kid I loved reading about natural disasters. My favorite book was a book of the earth's greatest natural disasters to date (1980s?). I was obsessed with the eruption of Mount Vesuvius that turned Pompeii into ash, and the massive whirlpools that sunk ships. Earthquakes and floods were all terrifying and thus awe-inspiring. I think this was my "safe" way of realizing human suffering. Still it is more difficult to imagine suffering when it is actually caused by humans. I don't think we should dwell on pain but I do think everyone should have an understanding of human suffering to be aware of the grand scale of existence, of life and of our place in this universe.

*photo credits
Tony Karumba/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images
Former Rwandan Army Col. Theoneste Bagosora, right, arrived with his co-defendant Col. Anatole Nsengiyumva at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda on Thursday in Arusha, Tanzania.

Where is Muntader al-Zaidi aka "Shoeless Joe?"

Brother Explains Shoe-Tossing Iraqi Journalist’s Anger

A lot of people think this is funny. I did at first I admit. Some people are probably angry or disgusted by the shoe throwing incident. But that is neither here nor there. What I'm really wondering is what has happened to the "man who threw the shoe"? A commenter at the end of the article calls him "Shoeless Joe" and says that he's a "true folk hero." Isn't that quaint? Everyone needs to wake up and realize that this isn't considered a silly prank by Iraqis and government officials. I know this article says the judge told his brother he may serve two years in jail but since then I read that it could be 7 if convicted and as of yesterday his family had not heard from him and he did not make an appearance in court. What will happen or is happening to this man - the "true folk hero" who *gasp* actually has a name, Muntader al-Zaidi?


*photo credits
In Sadr City, Maythem al-Zaidi stands before a photograph of his brother Muntader al-Zaidi, the Iraqi journalist who threw his shoes at President Bush. (Photo: Johan Spanner for The New York Times)

Winter weather

Since last spring I've dreaded the coming winter. Maybe I secretly hoped that my dread and anxiety would somehow psychically postpone the inevitable. I suppose that's called wishful thinking, and that usually never works out quite like one hopes. Winter is here now and I've made a little peace with the cold, snow and early evenings. I've been thinking of this season as if it were an adventure rather than weather patterns caused by the tilt of the earth's axis. Everything is a challenge; from backing out of the driveway, to walking on sidewalks and finding my warm gloves. Of course it isn't climbing Everest or walking on the moon but the adventure is found in these small challenges. Everyday is an exercise in preparedness for the next big snowfall or ice storm. I think I thrive on the challenge. The more difficult it is to get to work in the morning, the more I want to get to work even though everyone else has taken a snow day and stayed home. Still, in the middle of the constant planning and problem solving I have to remember that I can't control the inevitable and while it's good to be prepared, it's also good (and safer) sometimes to just sit quietly and watch the world fall silent under the falling snow.

Field

There is a field in the south of France that appears to be endless and untouched. The usual demarcations of land ownership are absent. There are no signs of toiling hands, no crops to plow, no roots of trees pierce the ground. There is only a seamless expanse of gold spilling over the land. It is said that to stand in the field is to find yourself in an ocean, waves of wind swell and surge through the tall grass soundlessly. From above the field appears haphazardly placed, as if a fraction of the sun dripped to earth. Birds and clouds rarely pass overhead. Most everyone avoids the field. Roads are planned in consideration. All care is taken to bypass the field at a measurable distance inconvenient to transportation. While the surrounding land must fall under some ownership there is no rush to lay claim, because of this the field's beginning and end is not easily traced. This inexplicable reverence has transpired through too many generations to fully understand. There are a few floating stories secreted away that speak of whispered pacts between human, animal and god. But no one really knows why or how the field remains as it does, seemingly endless and untouched.

Tattoo

Some of my writing from the summer (2008)

Tattoo

A few weeks ago, I was almost certain I was going to get a tattoo. I knew what I wanted and where I wanted it. A small fern in simple black lines on the underside of my left wrist, touching but not covering the visible branch of veins that run from my heart stretching into my hand. My pulse would be a breeze tapping at the leaves which are known to be nourished by damp landscapes, but can also thrive on a dry desert plateau.

The hours between 14 days ago and now are sinking into the earth's crust, dissipating and accumulating in deep time. No beginning to begin or end to end. "Now there, now there" Now and then, I tell myself we are all sinking where we stand. Dipping our toes into a great gulf, absorbed by the unknown, falling in up to our knees. Now and then I am swimming in circles, like the moon orbiting you. Keeping it all together for another second. Seconds lifting and weightless now, and now.

Now is standing on a cliff, staring at the scene below. Salty water fills my eyes. Now. Cresting, spilling, plunging. The rocks below brace themselves against the collapsing waves. Now is lifting my right arm and casting a grey stone back to the grey sea. What touched my hand a second before is swallowed whole. Now is backing away from the precipice until my horizon is calm and distant. Distant and gaining distance.

A dam releases somewhere and water fills a reservoir. Too full and drunk off of sediment and dead branches, ghost towns swept up and gulped down. All that remembering rushes into you and settles in your gut like a stone, pulls you down, holds you down, and maybe sets you free. Behind me now, ley lines leak inky black filling up the laid impressions, covering my path.

I don't really think about getting a tattoo now. Maybe because I already have too many traces of living encircling my wrists settled into my skin there. There like the bones of some ancient fish preserved in the strata, forever held by the sea. Like enduring stains on rocks of mossy ferns that once clung there, nourished and thriving until for some reason unknown, no longer surviving. A few weeks ago a high tide was seen racing towards some infinite end, before curving and caving in on itself.

Forget, Forgot, Forgotten

Some of my writing over the summer...

Forget, Forgot, Forgotten
I grew up around abandoned things. Shells and remains feel like forget forgot forgotten. Empty Outer Spaces. A crater sized pit carved out of red earth dug up by a previous occupant who wanted to leave their imprint in my back yard. My earliest memories sink into me like all the other abandoned things. At age five or six, I would wake in the afternoon to a house still and quiet. I would call out for anyone, and when they didn't come I would stand at the window crying. Sometimes I would scream in my crying, afraid the emptiness would empty me. I would press my face so hard against the glass just to know that I was still existing, not satisfied until my breath left a damp smudge of fog on the windowpane. Eventually someone would walk through the front door. I would run to them carrying every feeling I had ever felt or would feel. Heart broken tiny smashed toy, arms reaching extended and open. No one ever understood how I felt the air escape my lungs, blood drain from my heart like suddenly someone had pulled a plug on all my life and love sent fleeing from my body through my eyelashes and out my tear ducts. No one ever understands. They just hunch their shoulders up towards theirs ears in a shrug, and when their shoulders fall the impact sends tremors like shame through my open still empty arms. Leaving me cold. Eyelashes long and lucky they say, holding in all that dampening sad. An insect shell sits on my desk shuffling back and forth with each breath sucking in and sighing out. I'm always grasping at emptiness. I pull it over me like a blanket. I warm up to the void, and feel out deserted landscapes with pale lined palms and fingertips smoothing the way ahead. Feeling in the dark, the bare space of your back, the scent of your skin that extends from your shoulder to the curve of your neck. I move slowly through the empty rooms at Sundown. Shallow scattered beams withdraw their shadows and slink behind the half opened curtain until there is just me standing in a room with no light. A cigarette still burns and the red orange ash sighs. I inhale. My forehead rests against the windowpane glass. I feel the cool outside air on my cheek at the corner of my mouth. I breathe in your absence until every inch of me is full and filled again with forget forgot forgotten.

Dear Brooklyn,

Sometimes I miss you. I miss Court Street, Smith Street, Atlantic Avenue. One time a woman stopped me on Atlantic Ave. and asked me if I knew the way to the hospital... I said I didn't know. But I did know. I didn't tell her because I didn't really trust or believe that I knew which way was up or down. I did know even though I said I didn't. I always felt like a lost stray a little shy of the streets. I was turned inside out and scattered all sorts of ways. It's true, my sense of direction was a little off and maybe I was lost, but your streets and addresses weren't the problem. So Brooklyn, Court Street, Smith Street, Atlantic Ave if you're reading... I don't blame you anymore. You were just being you, and I wasn't really ready to accept that. I've changed and I really think we'd get along a little better now. See it really was me and wasn't you even though you could be a little harsh at times. I'll always remember how you taught me to ride the subway, savor the sweetness of Italian ice, the long walks to the promenade in the summer sun, sweat soaked shirt watching the traffic roll on the BQE, people leaning against the rail alone with the manhattan skyline. We had some good times.

Runners high?

photo by kalle61m

I may have recently discovered endorphins. I've always heard about the "runners high," but other than just enjoying running I had yet to experience the rush of endorphins that comes along with it... until recently. I've started running 5 miles. In the last mile I start to feel the rush. I'm a little skeptical though because a part of me thinks that maybe I'm just ecstatic about reaching 5 miles, reaching the end and pushing myself. But then something else happens. I don't just feel good during that last mile. I feel good for rest of the day. "Good" is an understatement. I feel like I'm walking on air (excuse the cliche), like I just found out ice cream is the most nutritious thing you can eat, like I just got a new puppy and we're frolicking with butterflies in a sunlit field, like I'm laying on my back in said field listening to the wind rustling the tall grass. There's more but I've probably made my point. It's winter here now. The first snowstorm of the year hit last night and it's still snowing outside. Normally this would have me pretty down, but riding the bus on my way to work - then walking in the snow, I find myself smiling at the smallest things. My corners of my mouth curve into a natural frown and usually this is my expression for most of the day. Running 5 miles is new to me and smiling so much (and randomly) is too. For that, I guess I'll have to make the call. It must be endorphins. They're ok.