They say that we don’t dream in color, that the tapestry of our dreams is woven with copious hues of black and white, but I never gave this notion much credence. Personally, I do, in fact, dream in color, and this is how I know: in my most horrific nightmares, blood is always red. To be quite honest, that flaming, crimson color frequently dominates such nightmares; moreover, it is often the only image that I remember lucidly as I wake up with heart racing and sweaty palms gripping the sheets. During this past week, I so often found myself in the throes of many such nightmares, the kind so painfully vivid that the entire sequence of images seems like one never-ending kaleidoscope of such heinous, bloodcurdling, piecemeal images that I will wake up trembling, feeling fortunate that this hell is not my reality. Many other people have not been so lucky.
The past few days, with all of the indescribably gruesome images of victims in Syria that have been incessantly circulating online, I’ve told myself repeatedly that I should avoid all media. Please don’t think that this is because I do not care about the suffering of others; it’s actually quite the opposite. While human empathy is usually a beautiful and necessary quality to have, the kind of empathy that I possess is more of a downfall than a virtue. It is both crippling and excruciating at times. We’ve probably all heard that old adage, “I feel your pain,” but I take that sentiment to whole new levels. For instance, I can’t tell you how often I’ve witnessed someone suffering in pain, and immediately after, I would develop a very similar pain, or “sympathy pains,” if you will. Also, you’ll never know how often I will hear or read about the suffering of others who are less fortunate, and then, like clockwork, I’ll soon become overwhelmed by all-consuming feelings of angst and melancholia. These emotions are always counterproductive, though, for while they won’t do anything to help the ones suffering, I will become ill and distracted from everyday activities. Therefore, I figured that it would be in my best interest to avoid the media for the past week. However, not only was this impossible, but I don’t even believe that this would have been constructive. After all, what would I gain from keeping myself in my own little bubble of obliviousness? When I logged onto the internet a few days ago, I was instantaneously met with heart-wrenching images, such as the one featured on this post, that have been so ubiquitous and unavoidable these last few days. These very images have been ingrained so profoundly in my consciousness that they have become, quite literally, the things my nightmares are made of.
When I was fourteen, I remember reading the book Night by Holocaust survivor and acclaimed writer Elie Wiesel. This book is a harrowing and graphic account of both the nefarious atrocities that Mr. Wiesel witnessed and endured when he and his family were indentured in a concentration camp, and a life-affirming testament to the power of the human spirit. Reading this book as a young girl was, for me, a pivotal moment. It was one of those momentous instances that helped me to understand how badly I wanted to be a writer and a moment that compounded, in my mind, the unbelievably, transformative power of words to cause others to feel and to change both hearts and minds. Now, as I encounter these heart-rending images, especially of the children, I don’t know why the poignant words of Wiesel’s book keep resounding in my head: “Never shall I forget that night…which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed... Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky.” I think the most disturbing idea in this whole passage to me is the notion of this cruel silence in the face of such horrid crimes against humanity.
Back in January, I wrote about something that is truly a conundrum for me—the paradox in which many ultra-conservative individuals who identify as being strictly “pro-life” simultaneously support a ban that would prevent these tormented individuals from seeking refuge in our country. Now, I just wanted to emphasize that this is a generalization; I know many conservative individuals who do not fit this description at all. Nonetheless, it never ceases to amaze me how many people I encounter who are so vehemently protective of life that is in-utero, but once that life is born, all of that concern proves itself to have only had a nine-month shelf-life. Please understand that as a Catholic, I do not agree with abortion, I find those who seek to protect the unborn to be truly admirable and commendable, and I dislike the prospect of any life being terminated. However, I just can’t understand how some individuals who are intensely passionate about preserving lives, which, in over 99% of cases, are not believed to be sentient or capable of feeling pain, can be, at the same time, coldly indifferent to the lives of fully-conscious, living and breathing human beings who are capable of suffering unspeakable agony. I don’t think that anything has reinforced these feelings of confusion for me more than the events that have unfolded these last few days.
Mr. Wiesel was once quoted saying, “The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference.” I believe this, and I think that this is what pains me most in this situation. Through it all, there are three questions that will not go from my mind. Firstly, I can’t help but wonder how, in good conscience, we could continue to shut our doors to these individuals after seeing what an urgently dire situation these people are in. Likewise, I often wonder if we could have engendered the concern and goodwill of more individuals for the plight of these children if we could have somehow placed them back in their mothers’ wombs. Finally, I can’t help but wonder if more compassion would have been elicited had these victims been American children. Indeed, I believe that many times, the effects of indifference prove to be even more deadly than those of hatred.
These days, I feel this sense of powerlessness washing over me as nothing makes us more aware of our own insignificance on this vast Earth than our own inability to make an impact or change the course of human events. Whenever the thought threatens to become oppressive, I’ll write my feelings down, I’ll say a prayer, I’ll contribute to a charity, and I’ll do what I can, in my own trivial way, to share my thoughts with others, and I warmly invite you all to do the same. In the immortal words of Elie Wiesel, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”
-- Daniella Rossi
No comments:
Post a Comment