Sorrow and Solidarity
by Scott Russell Sanders

It will take us all a very long time to absorb the lessons of last week's violence, and to gain some understanding of what it means for our society and ourselves. Anything that I can say or write so soon after the events will inevitably be partial and may be wrongheaded. For what they are worth, here are my early thoughts.

We have a great deal of mourning to do for all those who died or were seriously injured, for their families and friends. For those of us who had never known grievous loss, these events have stripped away our illusion of invulnerability. What follows grief, however, is most likely to be anger, and that seems to me dangerous, for ourselves and for the world.

I think the attack demonstrates the folly as well as the immorality of using violence to impose our will on others, and so I am dismayed to hear so many voices, both inside and outside the government, responding to the atrocity by threatening vengeance, by calling for greater military spending, by promising war. I think the attack demonstrates the folly of building a nuclear missile shield, both because the money for such a technological fantasy will be drained away from humanitarian purposes (at home and abroad), and because there are clearly easier ways to attack a complex technological society than by firing nuclear-tipped missiles. I think the attack illustrates the dangers of gigantism - striving to construct the largest building, corporation, economy, army, or machine - because such gigantism makes a fat target and it also makes our country easy prey to terrorism. I think the attack, and the subsequent run on gasoline, reveals the folly of building an economy so addicted to petroleum that any hint of a disruption in supply throws us into a panic.

Above all, I think the attack demonstrates - if we needed such a demonstration - that United States foreign policy, economic practice, military behavior, and cultural products have inspired passionate hatred in many parts of the world, including within our own borders. I want to understand what I can of that hatred - what caused it, what reasons there may be behind it, and what we might do, as a country and as individuals, to reduce it. This is not a matter of "blaming" America for the attack; nothing whatsoever could justify such mayhem. Rather, I wish to understand what I can of the grievances and suffering that bred the hatred. For I don't accept the view that the people who carried out these monstrous acts were themselves simply monsters - that they were crazy, or brainwashed, or demonic, or evil. I am convinced that if we follow such acts back to their sources, we will find suffering. And only by alleviating suffering can we reduce the likelihood of further violence. The antidote to war is neither missile shields, larger Pentagon budgets, nor bombing raids; the only durable antidote is taking away the causes of war.

I am also troubled by the sometimes reckless search for a culprit, especially by the tendency among some people to demonize whole categories of people - Arabs, Muslims, Afghans, Iraqis, etc. I suspect that precisely this penchant for dividing the world into Us and Them helped to inspire the hatred that boiled over in last week's attack. We may get tired of hearing about the necessity for compassion, tolerance, and mutual respect. But we cannot live decently or peacefully in a crowded world without those qualities.

Certain moments in one's life cast their influence forward over all the moments that follow. For all of us, the events of this week will change us forever. How we change will determine whether the terrorists have achieved their goal.

If we become a more fearful, aggressive, and vengeful society, then the terrorists will have won. If we divide among ourselves, judging one another by religion or skin color or accent, then the terrorists will have won. If we respond to this assault on freedom by sweeping aside protection for civil liberties, for other species, and for the soil and water and air; if we respond to violence by becoming more violent, stockpiling weapons, dropping bombs on civilians - then the terrorists will have won.

But if we respond to the terrible events of this week by becoming more loving toward one another and toward innocent people everywhere; if we redouble our commitment to the ideals of freedom and equality on which this nation was founded; if we become more compassionate, more aware of the suffering of people in all countries; if we dedicate our own lives to doing useful work and to defending the health of our communities - then the terrorists will have failed.

We cannot bring back those who've died. We cannot wipe away the pain from their families and friends. We cannot undo the monstrous events that have torn the fabric of our society. But we can work to make sure the damage does not creep into our hearts. We can make sure the poison of these cruel acts does not infect our society. We can dedicate ourselves to making peace. And we can only make lasting peace by reducing injustice and misunderstanding and suffering everywhere - beginning in our own households and communities.

During a time of war in Ireland, William Butler Yeats wrote a poem called "The Second Coming," whose opening stanza haunts many of us these days:

Truly, "the blood-dimmed tide" was loosed this week, and innocence was drowned. We have seen that the worst of people are "full of passionate intensity," willing to wreak havoc without question or remorse.

Now the rest of us must show that we do not lack conviction. We must show that we possess the courage of our principles. The surest way to defeat terrorism is to dedicate ourselves to the work of healing. The surest way to defeat hatred is to enlarge the sphere of love.

You may be finding it difficult to concentrate on your work in the face of such cruel and shocking events. I certainly do. At the same time, I feel all the more determined to do whatever is in my power to increase understanding and affection. Far from making me despair, these terrible events help clarify for me the only true grounds for hope.

At a dark time in his own life, Robert Frost wrote a poem called "Acquainted with the Night," which opens with these lines:

We are all now more deeply acquainted with the night than we were at dawn on September 11. The night is real, it is powerful, it is frightening; but it is not the final truth. Every good impulse in your heart tells you that life is larger than death, that love is stronger than hate. Cling to that knowledge, and carry it with you as medicine for the wounds of this week. .

Scott Russell Sanders, September 17th, 2001

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