City of Light

November 16, 2015

Greetings from the triumph,

“Last night, I rode by the Eiffel Tower. Instead of glittering against the sky, the iconic monument was dark in mourning. I fear the city of light will never be the same.” Eleanor Beardsley, news correspondent and Paris resident.

This past week I sat at a table with a group of men sharing lunch conversation.  I don’t know what inspired the topic, but three of them began talking about the Viet Nam war.  Men in their sixties, remembering the 60’s.  They talked about how that war was different from their father’s war, and sadly went on to say how this generation’s war was different again.  One reminded us of the atrocities at Mai Lai, and countless anonymous places.  All of them said that it changed everyone who went there, and in turn it changed those at home, and our country.

I left there wondering about the smudged grey line connecting the lifetimes of humans, dotted with violence, linking empire builders, conquistadors, crusaders, world wars, police actions, juntas and border skirmishes and terrorism.  Too many different ways to describe the same thing. 

My day filled up with the crackling frenetic minutiae that can swamp us, and the conversation was pushed into the place where sepia toned pictures and old newspaper headlines go.  But not for long.

And then Paris was raked with pain.

And I heard other conversations, more violence, and thoughts of revenge and punishment and the chasm that already divides people yawned wider.  It does change us.  It changes how we feel about each other, or our choices, our priorities.  It changes how we feel about other races, religions, nations. People.

For me, these murders scraped at a scab that I keep thinking will heal.  I felt the rush of sick anger that reminded me of New York and Boston and too many other places where the smudged grey line connects humans who crush the lives of others.  I am too close to this anger.  It snuffs out forgiveness and compassion and stains my faith.  It stains what I believe about all of us.

It left the question; where is the hope?  Where is the hope for those who mourn innocent deaths?  Where is the hope for the peacemakers?  Where is the hope for all of us who are stained, again, with this barbarism?

I know very little about Paris, other than a few romantic movies and the stories that friends have shared about the city, and what Hemingway put to words.  There is something enigmatic about it that draws people there, keeps them there, or leaves with them in their bloodstream.  I recognize this passion that lives in a place.  I’ve seen it, felt it in cities, in villages, around campfires, at starting lines.  I know what it is and I have seen the resilience, the strength it can create.  And for me, perhaps, an answer began to form.

There was a time when another stain was on Paris, when the light of the city formed shadows around invaders from another evil empire builder.  And there was tragedy and grief and despair. 

And then they were gone.  The rubble was cleared, and there was mourning. But the light was there, this fire that exists where people face a challenge and survive.  And slowly Parisians found a reason to build, to look forward, to celebrate.  And the people sat in sidewalk cafes and made music and made dinner and made love.  And the light grew brighter. 

There is nothing in these words that seeks to justify or compare or rationalize one act of violence with another.  I don’t need to illustrate the history of human aggression, or explain the motivation that drives us to violence.  I am wrestling with the same chaos in me that all survivors face, choosing between the next violence, giving in to the stain, or choosing hope.

So where is the hope? 

There is hope in the spirit of Louis Zamperini, the Unbroken, who before he died went back to face his war captors to forgive them.  There is hope in the soldiers, who still wake screaming from their dreams, who get on planes and step off in Viet Nam to try to make peace with themselves and the people there.  There is hope in every survivor who vows never to make another survivor.

There is hope in the peacemakers, in the prayers of those who believe that God will one day intervene and erase the last connection of the smudged gray line.  There is hope in every word we express to support those who mourn, the people left in fear, the ones who now can only see darkness.

For as long as we can find history there is this stain we bring to one another.  There is hope though, because for as long as we can find history humans have survived the stain, and sought to scour it from their lives.  There is hope in time.  There is hope in forgiveness.  

Maybe that is little consolation to those who will bury their loved ones this week.  I feel that.  But someone has to carry the fire, the light that separates us from the unforgivable.  We can be those people who carry the light, until enough time has passed that hope can come again for those who mourn.

The City of Light will never be the same.  In truth, it was never destined to be the same.  Like all living things it was meant to adapt to what the world brought it and go on with the passion and light that lives there, because we live there, all of us.  Je suis Paris.

Hope this finds you carrying the light,

David

“You have to carry the fire."
I don't know how to."
Yes, you do."
Is the fire real? The fire?"
Yes it is."
Where is it? I don't know where it is."
Yes you do. It's inside you. It always was there. I can see it.” 
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Copyright © 2015 David Smith