Another Robin-poet speaks (rec'd from Nama who reads-relays)//Long!
Jeannekhan
Subject: Week 1: Ghosts and Echoes
Dear Friends,
Your response to the email I sent on Day 2 of this calamity has been
overwhelming. In addition to friends and colleagues, absolute
strangers--in Serbia, Korea, Fiji, Zambia, all across North
America--have replied, as have women's networks in places ranging from
Senegal and Japan to Chile, Hong Kong, Saudi Arabia, even Iran. You've
offered moving emotional support and asked for continued updates. I
can't send regular reports/alerts as I did during the elections last
November or the cabinet confirmation battles last year. But here's
another try. Share this letter as you wish.
I'll focus on New York--my firsthand experience--but this doesn't mean
any less anguish for the victims of the Washington or Pennsylvania
calamities. Today was Day 8. Incredibly, a week has passed. Abnormal
normalcy has settled in. Our usually contentious mayor (previously bad
news for New Yorkers of color and for artists) has risen to this
moment with efficiency, compassion, real leadership. The city is alive
and dynamic. Below 14th Street, traffic is flowing again, mail is
being delivered, newspapers are back. But very early this morning I
walked east, then south almost to the tip of Manhattan Island. The
16-acre site itself is closed off, of course, as is a perimeter
surrounding it controlled by the National Guard, used as a command
post and staging area for rescue workers. Still, one is able to
approach nearer to the area than was possible last weekend, since the
law-court district and parts of the financial district are now open
and (shakily) working. The closer one gets the more one sees--and
smells- what no TV report, and very few print reports, have
communicated. I find myself giving way to tears again and again, even
as I write this.
If the first sights of last Tuesday seemed bizarrely like a George
Lucas special-effects movie, now the directorial eye has changed: it's
the grim lens of Agnes Varda, juxtaposed with images so surreal they
could have been framed by Bunuel or Kurosawa.
This was a bright, cloudless, early autumnal day. But as one draws
near the site, the area looms out of a dense haze: one enters an
atmosphere of dust, concrete powder, and plumes of smoke from fires
still raging deep beneath the rubble (an estimated 2 million cubic
yards of debris). Along lower 2nd Avenue, 10 refrigerator
tractor-trailer trucks are parked, waiting; if you stand there a
while, an NYC Medical Examiner van arrives -with a sagging body bag.
Thick white ash, shards of broken glass, pebbles, and chunks of
concrete cover street after street of parked cars for blocks outside
the perimeter. Handprints on car windows and doors- handprints sliding
downward--have been left like frantic graffiti. Sometimes there are
messages finger-written in the ash: "U R Alive." You can look into
closed shops, many with cracked or broken windows, and peer into
another dimension: a wall-clock stopped at 9:10, restaurant tables
meticulously set but now covered with two inches of ash, grocery
shelves stacked with cans and produce bins piled high with apples and
melons--all now powdered chalk-white. A moonscape of plenty. People
walk unsteadily along these streets, wearing nosemasks against the
still particle-full air, the stench of burning wire and plastic,
erupted sewage; the smell of death, of decomposing flesh.
Probably your TV coverage shows the chain-link fences aflutter with
yellow ribbons, the makeshift shrines of candles, flowers, scribbled
notes of mourning or of praise for the rescue workers that have sprung
up everywhere--especially in front of firehouses, police stations,
hospitals. What TV doesn't show you is that near Ground Zero the
streets for blocks around are still, a week later, adrift in bits of
paper--singed, torn, sodden pages: stock reports, trading print-outs,
shreds of appointment calendars, half of a "To-Do" list. What TV
doesn't show you are scores of tiny charred corpses now swept into the
gutters. Sparrows. Finches. They fly higher than pigeons, so they
would have exploded outward, caught midair in a rush of flame, wings
on fire as they fell. Who could have imagined it: the birds were
burning.
From a distance, you can see the lattices of one of the Towers, its
skeletal bones the sole remains, eerily beautiful in asymmetry, as if
a new work of abstract art had been erected in a public space.
Elsewhere, you see the transformation of institutions: The New School
and New York University are missing persons' centers. A movie house is
now a rest shelter, a Burger King a first-aid center, a Brooks
Brothers' clothing store a body parts morgue, a record shop a haven
for lost animals. Libraries are counseling centers. Ice rinks are
morgues. A bank is now a supply depot: in the first four days, it
distributed 11,000 respirators and 25,000 pairs of protective gloves
and suits. Nearby, a mobile medical unit housed in a Macdonald's has
administered 70,000 tetanus shots. The brain tries to process the
numbers: "only" 50,000 tons of debris had been cleared by yesterday,
out of 1.2 million tons. The medical examiner's office has readied up
to 20,000 DNA tests for unidentifiable cadaver parts. At all times,
night and day, a minimum of 1000 people live and work on the site.
Such numbers daze the mind. It's the details--fragile,
individual--that melt numbness into grief. An anklet with "Joyleen"
engraved on it--found on an ankle. Just that: an ankle. A pair of
hands--one brown, one white--clasped together. Just that. No wrists. A
burly welder who drove from Ohio to help, saying softly, "We're
working in a cemetery. I'm standing in--not on, in--a graveyard." Each
lamppost, storefront, scaffolding, mailbox, is plastered with homemade
photocopied posters, a racial/ethnic rainbow of faces and names: death
the great leveler, not only of the financial CEOs- their images
usually formal, white, male, older, with suit-and-tie--but the
mailroom workers, receptionists, waiters. You pass enough of the
MISSING posters and the faces, names, descriptions become familiar.
The Albanian window-cleaner guy with the bushy eyebrows. The teenage
Mexican dishwasher who had an American flag tattoo. The janitor's
assistant who'd emigrated from Ethiopia. The Italian-American
grandfather who was a doughnut-cart tender. The 23-year-old Chinese
American junior pastry chef at the Windows on the World restaurant
who'd gone in early that day so she could prep a business breakfast
for 500. The firefighter who'd posed jauntily wearing his green
shamrock necktie. The dapper African-American midlevel manager with a
small gold ring in his ear who handled "minority affairs" for one of
the companies. The middle-aged secretary laughing up at the camera
from her wheelchair. The maintenance worker with a Polish name,
holding his newborn baby. Most of the faces are smiling; most of the
shots are family photos; many are recent wedding pictures. . . .
I have little national patriotism, but I do have a passion for New
York, partly for our gritty, secular energy of endurance, and because
the world does come here: 80 countries had offices in the Twin Towers;
62 countries lost citizens in the catastrophe; an estimated 300 of our
British cousins died, either in the planes or the buildings. My
personal comfort is found not in ceremonies or prayer services but in
watching the plain, truly heroic (a word usually misused) work of
ordinary New Yorkers we take for granted every day, who have risen to
this moment unpretentiously, too busy even to notice they're
expressing the splendor of the human spirit: firefighters, medical
aides, nurses, ER doctors, police officers, sanitation workers,
construction-workers, ambulance drivers, structural engineers, crane
operators, rescue worker "tunnel rats". . . .
Meanwhile, across the US, the rhetoric of retaliation is in
full-throated roar. Flag sales are up. Gun sales are up. Some radio
stations have banned playing John Lennon's song, "Imagine." Despite
appeals from all officials (even Bush), mosques are being attacked,
firebombed; Arab Americans are hiding their children indoors; two
murders in Arizona have already been categorized as hate crimes--one
victim a Lebanese-American man and one a Sikh man who died merely for
wearing a turban. (Need I say that there were not nationwide attacks
against white Christian males after Timothy McVeigh was apprehended
for the Oklahoma City bombing?)
Last Thursday, right-wing televangelists Jerry Falwell and Pat
Robertson (our home-grown American Taliban leaders) appeared on
Robertson's TV show "The 700 Club," where Falwell blamed "the pagans,
and the abortionists, and the feminists and the gays and lesbians ...
the American Civil Liberties Union, People for the American Way" and
groups "who have tried to secularize America" for what occurred in New
York. Robertson replied, "I totally concur." After even the Bush White
House called the remarks "inappropriate," Falwell apologized (though
he did not take back his sentiments); Robertson hasn't even
apologized. (The program is carried by the Fox Family Channel,
recently purchased by the Walt Disney Company--in case you'd like to
register a protest.)
The sirens have lessened. But the drums have started. Funeral drums.
War drums. A State of Emergency, with a call-up of 50,000 reservists
to active duty. The Justice Department is seeking increased authority
for wider surveillance, broader detention powers, wiretapping of
persons (not, as previously, just phone numbers), and stringent press
restrictions on military reporting.
And the petitions have begun. For justice but not vengeance. For a
reasoned response but against escalating retaliatory violence. For
vigilance about civil liberties. For the rights of innocent Muslim
Americans. For "bombing" Afghanistan with food and medical parcels,
NOT firepower. There will be the expectable peace marches, vigils,
rallies. . . . One member of the House of Representatives--Barbara
Lee, Democrat of California, an African American woman--lodged the
sole vote in both houses of Congress against giving Bush broadened
powers for a war response, saying she didn't believe a massive
military campaign would stop terrorism. (She could use letters of
support: email her, if you wish, at barba...@mail.house.gov.)
Those of us who have access to the media have been trying to get a
different voice out. But ours are complex messages with long-term
solutions--and this is a moment when people yearn for simplicity and
short-term, facile answers.
Still, I urge all of you to write letters to the editors of
newspapers, call in to talk radio shows, and, for those of you who
have media access--as activists, community leaders, elected or
appointed officials, academic experts, whatever--to do as many
interviews and TV programs as you can. Use the tool of the Internet.
Talk about the root causes of terrorism, about the need to diminish
this daily climate of patriarchal violence surrounding us in its
state-sanctioned normalcy; the need to recognize people's despair over
ever being heard short of committing such dramatic, murderous acts;
the need to address a desperation that becomes chronic after
generations of suffering; the need to arouse that most subversive of
emotions--empathy--for "the other"; the need to eliminate hideous
economic and political injustices, to reject all tribal/ethnic hatreds
and fears, to repudiate religious fundamentalisms of every kind.
Especially talk about the need to understand that we must expose the
mystique of violence, separate it from how we conceive of excitement,
eroticism, and "manhood"; the need to comprehend that violence differs
in degree but is related in kind, that it thrives along a spectrum, as
do its effects--from the battered child and raped woman who live in
fear to an entire populace living in fear.
Meanwhile, we cry and cry and cry. I don't even know who my tears are
for anymore, because I keep seeing ghosts, I keep hearing echoes.
The world's sympathy moves me deeply. Yet I hear echoes dying into
silence: the world averting its attention from Rwanda's screams . . .
Ground Zero is a huge mass grave. And I think: Bosnia. Uganda.
More than 5400 people are missing and presumed dead (not even counting
the Washington and Pennsylvania deaths). The TV anchors choke up:
civilians, they say, my god, civilians. And I see ghosts. Hiroshima.
Nagasaki. Dresden. Vietnam.
I watch the mask-covered mouths and noses on the street turn into the
faces of Tokyo citizens who wear such masks every day against toxic
pollution. I watch the scared eyes become the fearful eyes of women
forced to wear the hajib or chodor or burka against their will . . .
I stare at the missing posters' photos and think of the Mothers of the
Disappeared, walking the plazas in Argentina. And I see the ghosts of
other faces. In photographs on the walls of Holocaust museums. In
newspaper clippings from Haiti. In chronicles from Cambodia . . .
I worry for people who've lost their homes near the site, though I see
how superbly social-service agencies are trying to meet their
immediate and longer-term needs. But I see ghosts: the perpetually
homeless who sleep on city streets, whose needs are never addressed. .
. .
I watch normally unflappable New Yorkers flinch at loud noises,
parents panic when their kids are late from school. And I see my
Israeli feminist friends like Yvonne, who've lived with this dread for
decades and still (even yesterday) stubbornly issue petitions
insisting on peace. . . .
I watch sophisticates sob openly in the street, people who've lost
workplaces, who don't know where their next paycheck will come from,
who fear a contaminated water or food supply, who are afraid for their
sons in the army, who are unnerved by security checkpoints, who are in
mourning, who feel wounded, humiliated, outraged. And I see my friends
like Zuhira in the refugee camps of Gaza or West Bank, Palestinian
women who have lived in precisely that emotional condition--for four
generations.
Last weekend, many Manhattanites left town to visit concerned
families, try to normalize, get away for a break. As they streamed out
of the city, I saw ghosts of other travelers: hundreds of thousands of
Afghan refugees streaming toward their country's borders in what is to
them habitual terror, trying to escape a drought-sucked country so
war-devastated there's nothing left to bomb, a country with 50,000
disabled orphans and two million widows whose sole livelihood is
begging; where the life expectancy of men is 42 and women 40; where
women hunch in secret whispering lessons to girl children forbidden to
go to school, women who risk death by beheading--for teaching a child
to read.
The ghosts stretch out their hands. Now you know, they weep, gesturing
at the carefree, insulated, indifferent, golden innocence that was my
country's safety, arrogance, and pride. Why should it take such horror
to make you see? the echoes sigh, Oh please do you finally see?
This is calamity. And opportunity. The United States--what so many of
you call America--could choose now to begin to understand the world.
And join it. Or not.
For now my window still displays no flag, my lapel sports no
red-white-and-blue ribbon. Instead, I weep for a city and a world.
Instead, I cling to a different loyalty, affirming my un-flag, my
un-anthem, my un-prayer--the defiant un-pledge of a madwoman who also
had mere words as her only tools in a time of ignorance and carnage,
Virginia Woolf: "As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no
country. As a woman my country is the whole world."
If this is treason, may I be worthy of it.
In mourning--and absurd, tenacious hope,
Robin Morgan
September 18, 2001
New York City
An award-winning poet, novelist, political theorist, feminist
activist, journalist, and editor, Robin Morgan has published 17 books,
including six of poetry, two of fiction, and the now-classic
anthologies Sisterhood Is Powerful (Random House/Vintage, 1970), which
remained in print for 30 years, Sisterhood Is Global
(Doubleday/Anchor, l984; Feminist Press edition 1996); Sisterhood Is
Forever is forthcoming (Random House/Anchor, 2002). A founder/leader
of contemporary US feminism, she has also been a leader in the
international women's movement for 25 years.
Robin Morgan can be reached thru The Sisterhood is Global Institute,
an NGO which she founded in 1984.
Reader Comments:
Re: A Moonscape of Plenty
Posted by Stephen Downes (StephenDownes) at Sat Sep 22 14:39:08 2001