Over the last two months of ISIS-perpetrated massacres, displacements,
and beheadings, a two-line scene from The
Two Towers movie has played itself out in my head over and over again. As hordes of orcs besieging the terrified
forces of a battered human community threaten to break into their last mountain
stronghold, Aragorn, the up-and-coming Messiah-figure, stands in the middle of
the stronghold talking to Theoden, the aged king of Rohan. When all seems lost, Theoden asks with tired
desperation, “What can men do against such reckless hate?”
I think this confused horror captures the mood of many reading
the news about ISIS—not only in Iraqi Kurdistan but also in the West–especially
when things seemed to be at their worst a month and a half ago.
After Theoden’s question, Aragorn pauses for a moment, and
then looks up with new light and says to the worn-out king, “Ride out! Ride out
and meet them!” Theoden, freshly
inspired, summons his guard and careens down the castle ramp in a glorious
charge. And just when it looks like
their senseless courage will cost them their lives, the dawn breaks and Gandalf
the wizard arrives with an army of reinforcements who sweep the enemy away.
Back on August 8, when President Obama announced he had
begun targeted airstrikes on ISIS forces threatening Erbil, where we live, and
Mount Sinjar, where thousands of Yezidis were besieged, I felt like chiming in
with Aragorn. “Ride out and meet them!” I was scared.
The evil was stark. The responsibility
to protect was clear.
No politician has channeled this sentiment
better than vice-president Joe Biden who said a few weeks ago that the US would pursue ISIS “to the gates of hell.” Even Obama has climbed on board with his
promise to “degrade and destroy” ISIS last week.
I’m not a creative enough pacifist to imagine alternatives
to the apparent necessity of US airstrikes.
I do know that ISIS militants aren’t orcs. I know their fundamentalism is more modern
than medieval. I know that a great deal
of the blame for the current conflict can be placed squarely on the legacy of
US invasion and occupation. I know that
the longer the US (and now French) bombing campaign against ISIS continues, the
more likely it is to be counterproductive,
to put it mildly. And I also know that
Christians, Muslims, and Yezidis alike in Erbil and throughout Kurdistan received
news of US airstrikes with the same gratitude with which Tolkien’s imagined
refugees regarded Gandalf’s reinforcements.
So what can I say?
After what many Iraqi Christians regard, with alarming frankness, as 1400 years of
persecution, “turn the other cheek” is a hard command to hear. Reminding them of it is
not something I feel I can do. After
all, as a US citizen living in Erbil, the airstrikes came explicitly, in part,
on my behalf.
I remember going to the English-language mass on the evening
of August 8, the start of the US bombing campaign, feeling deeply
unsettled. Not just scared and confused,
but completely without answers in a world of senseless violence. The first reading of the service was Elijah’s
encounter with God on the mountain.
Elijah, who had been hiding in a cave from those seeking his life, is
told to stand outside and wait for God to “pass by.” A wind, an earthquake, a fire, and then “the
sound of sheer silence” all take their turn on the mountain before God speaks
to Elijah, telling him to get on with his vocation as a prophet. I’d never realized before that evening that the
text doesn’t say, as we often infer, that God spoke in the silence. Each event—silence included—just happens without
any explanation. And then the story
continues, and Elijah resumes his work. This
feeling of purposelessness matched my mood, and it wasn’t comforting. God is here.
But as usual, it’s hard to see where.
Nathan and Kaitlin - I asked my brother recently, regarding the U.S. response to ISIS: "Where is the peace voice right now? Is it louder in Harrisonburg than it is in Pittsburgh?" I sometimes think it's not very present in either place - or maybe I'm paying attention at the wrong times - but your writing gives me hope. Strangely, a call for peace is coming from Erbil, close to the action and maybe a little tremulous in the face of a very humanized and complicated conflict.
ReplyDeleteBrendan, thanks for writing.
ReplyDeleteYesterday a friend of mine said, "some conflicts are easier to argue against than others... and this one is harder to argue against." I think this is part of the reason for the relative silence from pacifist circles; like Nathan said, the responsibility to protect is clear.
And yet, I am a pacifist not because it is ultimately more effective than violence, but because I believe it is the best way to be a human. Sometimes nonviolent strategies are effective, and we flock to those examples and rally around them. But if we base our pacifism solely on its ability to succeed, we will quickly lose hope.
This is the paradox that we're living in now. I hope you can find a way to be silent, and to speak.
Thank you for these powerful reflections.
ReplyDelete