#812 Musings Beyond the Bunker (Thursday December 7)
Good morning,
I have been thinking a lot about our strange relationship with death. As opposed to “olden days,’ when people generally would die at home surrounded by family and friends, in 80% of all cases death now occurs in the sterile, cold environment of a hospital, with incessant interruptions, tests, and beeping devices. When someone dies, the body quickly is whisked away. We choose to avert our glance to death, which consumes us all but need not interfere with our sense that time somehow will spare us.
CONFRONTING DEATH IN THE MIDDLE EAST
But death is all around us, most particularly in war zones and resulting from terrorism. Within this context, we disconnect ourselves even more from death, seeing the conflict through a political, rather than human, perspective. I am shocked by the number of deaths in Gaza, perspectives of which range from two unacceptable and, in my opinion incorrect, conclusions—that this is some sort of genocide or that any level of destruction is warranted by the acts of Hamas. That said, I’m even more stunned with the world’s general indifference (or forgetfulness) regarding the atrocities committed by Hamas, in the name of Palestinian resistance.
It’s tough to illustrate the impact of all of these deaths on those left behind, other than through the personalization of a single loss in a way that may elicit the empathy that too often seems lacking. To give you my perspective, imagine the unimaginable. Imagine the loss of a child. And then imagine it being played out on a massive scale.
The loss of a child— someone so inextricably attached to oneself—one’s time capsule to the future—is beyond fathoming. We are approaching the sixth anniversary of Brad’s loss that feels a lifetime ago but also just like yesterday. To be gone is to exist and to not exist. To exist in memory, stories and impact and to not exist in the sense that no further chapters of that life will be written.
It has been two months today since the horrific events of October 7th and the relegation of thousands of families to that place of loss and grief. Since that dreadful day, we have learned details of the deaths and torture of many Israeli children by people whose motive in killing people was not to gain military advantage, nor was it the product of collateral damage. Rather these acts, of the most barbarous kind, were intended first to murder Jews, second to terrorize the nation and third to secure hostages as bargaining chips.
In a reaction to this senseless celebration of violence, the Israeli Defense Force attacked Gaza in order to free hostages and render Hamas incapable of inflicting further damage on Israeli citizens. There are few thinking people who don’t see that Israel has the right to secure the hostages and to attack Hamas; but there are many who question the magnitude of the reaction we are watching now. In the process of ferreting out the bad guys, thousands of civilians have been killed, many of them children. I grieve for the loss of lives—particularly children—in the past six weeks.
On the grand scale on which wars are fought, particularly where combatants are embedded in urban areas, the loss of civilian life is practically inevitable. It is deemed a justifiable cost that ostensibly serves greater goals. I don’t want to debate that point just now, for it is a question of whether it ever can be moral to take human life.
ADDRESSING LOSS
Many of us have lost parents and grandparents. Some have lost siblings, friends, and colleagues. Very few have lost a child. But, for just a moment and in order to better understand and empathize with these losses, I invite you to consider an uncomfortable place of grief—imagining the death of a child. As much as one may try to empathize with the parent of a dead child, no matter how kind you are and how supportive you can be, there is no filling that dark hole in a parent’s heart. Once the grieving becomes manageable, one picks up the pieces and begins to take one step at a time into the “after time.” Hopefully, one finds purpose, meaning, and perspective, rather than declining into the abyss that consumes many who go down this road.
Among the few things one can “grab onto” in addressing grief is the good wishes and support of friends. The most common statement of empathy one hears begins with the phrase “words cannot express…”
WORDS HAVE BEEN FEW
That phrase has stuck with me since October 7th. Not only can words not express but in the case of October 7th and the subsequent war in Gaza, very few words were even attempted to try to empathize with the grief that accompanies the death of a child and the termination of all that child might become.
As I watch protests by Students for a Democratic Palestine and other organizations protesting the Israeli response to the murdering spree of October 7th, I don’t recall a single person uttering a word of condolence for the victims or condemnation of the perpetrators. Few of these self-appointed vanguards of all that is just in Palestine can find it within themselves to stop and mourn the dead Jews—to utter the words that “one cannot express”.
As I listen to the Israeli government explaining what the Gaza “operation” was all about, there has been little acknowledgement of the human suffering and deaths of children in Gaza. I believe the IDF when it says it tries to minimize civilian deaths; although it feels that, the mounting numbers of dead, they haven’t done enough. While they rightly blame Hamas for putting children in harm’s way, daring Israel to attack, there has been little in the way of empathy expressed by government and military officials.
NO ONE IS UNSCATHED
As I think about this, I think we also tend to forget about the dead children in Ukraine or n Yemen, or in Bosnia, or in a number of other war zones around the world. War is terrible and, sadly, occasionally necessary. But its cost is countless parents who lose their children. These lives are broken and will never be fully whole again. Precious little is done to acknowledge their loss and utter the words that, while insufficient, nonetheless are important—“words cannot express” the grief.
As I think about the lives snuffed out too soon by the murderers of Hamas and in the crossfire in Gaza, I try to think of how these losses can be turned into something healing, something greater. It would be a remarkable outcome if those who have borne witness to these senseless deaths retreat to their homes and discuss these losses with their families and friends and ask themselves how the circumstances that give rise to the death of innocents can be resolved. It would be great if they could retreat to their holy books and try to ask forgiveness for having been party to, or supportive of, policies that steal the lives of children and forever damage families. It would be something special if the carnage of the past two months can open the way toward some sort of more permanent, just resolution to the conflict in the Middle East that has lasted hundreds of years and has counted amongst its victims countless numbers of children.
FINALLY, A BOOK THAT GOES A LONG WAY TOWARD HEALING
For a perspective from two fathers who lost children—an Israeli Jew and a Palestinian Muslim, I cannot recommend too highly the book Apeirogon, by Colum McCann. In geometry, an apeirogon is an infinite polygon with unlimited sides and perspectives—like the situation in Israel/Palestine. The situation is complex. It does not lend itself to simplistic formulations. How this Palestinian father and this Israeli father, each of whom lost a child to the violence of the conflict, interact, find meaning, and grieve speaks volumes about the human cost of this conundrum. Here is a clip of the two fathers being interviewed: https://parentscirclefriends.org/voices/
Words really cannot express…
One can hope,
Glenn