The
Logic Of Rage (A Chronicle
of the War in Gaza)
By George Capaccio
07 January,
2009
Countercurrents.org
Dear
Gabriel, speak to me. Let your words take the place of mine. My own
are such poor vessels, too feeble to carry even the promise of life.
Besides, what could I possibly say that would matter, that would make
even the slightest bit of difference to the people of Gaza. For those
who must suffer these most wicked acts done in the name of self-defense,
I appeal to you. In the silence of this room where one candle safely
burns, I think of Gaza and the flames that won’t die down, the
cries that go on burning night after deafening night, the blood that
pumps from an endless wound, the tears that will smolder for years
to come in hearts reduced to blackened pits. And I see the planes
with devout precision delivering sermons of bloody hell. The wounded,
the dying fall like ashes from a single flame mere bombs can’t
blow out. It is a flame born of a people’s struggle for the
right to exist on their own ancestral land, free of the oppressor’s
crushing claim.
They are so light, so ethereal. We hardly notice them at all, and
when we do, their suffering, like the downiest of feathers, like thistledown
or spider web, lands without touching our heart or conscience. How
else to explain this absence of collective anguish, this quiet acceptance
of what is done, if not in our name, than most assuredly with our
money and the active support of our national leaders. And what of
our President-Elect, known to some as the Prince of Peace, the Fulcrum
of Change, the Non-Ideological Unifier? He offers the world a carefully
crafted, politically astute, well-bred silence. But let’s be
fair and call it rather a complex silence, an evocative silence, a
richly textured silence in which one might see either streaks of callousness
or exemplary prudence and wisdom. Whatever his silence may mean, one
thing at least is clear: He looks good in shorts and Hawaiian shirt
as he tootles around the links in search of that ever elusive hole-in-one.
While in a Gaza refugee camp, five sisters are killed in their sleep
when a warplane fires a missile at a nearby mosque. Slabs of falling
rubble crush their dreams once and for all. Elsewhere on the Strip,
hospital morgues overflow with bodies. Frantic relatives search for
a missing loved one among the severed limbs and broken lives another
bombing has wrought. I have the terrible feeling that except for a
relative handful of concerned citizens here and elsewhere in the world,
none of this carries much weight. For some, I fear the grim news is
cause to celebrate, to nod with approval at Israel’s bold response
to indiscriminate rocket attacks, which have so far claimed the lives
of four Israeli citizens. Their deaths are unconscionable of course.
As Barack waxed so eloquently during a trip to the southern Israeli
town of Sderot where so many Palestinian rockets have fallen, “If
somebody was sending rockets into my house where my two daughters
sleep at night, I'm going to do everything in my power to stop that.
I would expect Israelis to do the same thing." And so they have.
About one hour after the mosque was struck, an Israeli gunship helicopter
shot two missiles into the Rafah refugee camp. One of them dazzled
the home of the al-Absi family. Three brothers died instantly: Sedqi,
3, Ahmad, 12, and Muhammed, 13.
Day 8 of Operation Cast Lead, the Israeli term for its “bold
response”: 462 Palestinians killed including 76 children and
38 women. More than 2300 wounded, a quarter of them in critical condition.
On top of the bombardment, a ground invasion is now underway after
4 hours of artillery barrage. Here, light years removed from the fighting,
I picture Prophet Muhammed sheltering in a cave on Mount Hirah. Without
warning, an irresistible presence draws near and pours the first of
many suras into the Prophet’s expectant soul. God the compassionate,
God the merciful, the angel proclaims, and Muhammed listens.
Now without benefit of divine intercession and with only my stubborn
old donkey brain to cart me about, I look for sparks of compassion
in the quickening night. Today I find some degree of solace standing
shoulder to shoulder with compatriots opposed to the war. We take
our cause through the streets of Boston, chant, shout, wave flags,
and openly protest the rape of Gaza. At the end of one particularly
rousing speech, we raise our fists in support of the Palestinians’
right to resist the occupation, the blockade, and now this U.S.-supported,
Biblical-scale slaughter of the innocents. One among many by Trinity
Church in Copley Square, I pray the perpetrators and their Foggy Bottom
enablers will one day be brought to justice if not in this world then
the next.
Day 10: The killing goes on. Israeli jets shell a Palestinian home,
killing five children and a family of seven. Medics at the scene say
the family members bled to death because Israeli shelling prevented
ambulances from reaching them. I read reports that the Israeli military
may be using cluster bombs, white phosphorous (a chemical weapon),
and depleted uranium munitions. No one is riding to the rescue. Not
the EU, not the Arab League, not the UN. It appears a mysterious virus
has afflicted everyone in a position to stop the carnage or at least
influence public opinion by telling the truth. According to medical
journals, the virus attacks the nervous system and leaves its victims
churning in a whirlwind of confusion. After the onset of illness,
the victims typically resort to balderdash and hogwash to express
themselves.
Just consider the words of Israeli Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni who
assures the world there is no humanitarian crisis in Gaza while one
million Gazans go without electricity, about a quarter of the population
has no running water, hospitals are running out of medical supplies,
and looming food shortages threaten to cause rampant hunger. No one
is safe from the virus. For a homegrown expression of its most virulent
form, listen to anything uttered by Condi Rice, George Bush, or any
of their minions. As the disease progresses, the higher functions
are switched off. Sufferers loose whatever humanity they may have
once possessed and are only capable of demanding more bloodshed, which
they justify by appeals to “national security,” or “the
war on terror,” to name a few of their favorite delusional rationales.
I can’t help thinking about my friends and family and how the
onslaught in Gaza, to say nothing of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan,
seems not to affect them. It’s almost as if these conflicts
don’t exist, as if their field of vision is limited to what
takes place in their daily lives. Is this what it means to be a “good
German”? Not to see what your government is doing. Not to care
about the people it is harming. Rather, to imagine the ashes falling
from the sky are really snow and the nearby chimneys from which they
come lead to ovens baking bread? Yes, I know, we’re a long,
long way from that. Some forgotten German poet wrote about the children
he saw on trains bound for the camps. He said the children’s
eyes shone like glowing coals. I bet he was quite proud of that image.
As for the fate of the children and the horror of their captivity,
no other lines were forthcoming.
Still no word from Gabriel.
(George Capaccio makes his living writing for educational
publishers and conducting literacy programs in elementary schools.
For the past 10 years, he has maintained the Iraq Family Relief Fund,
a nonprofit, grassroots effort to assist Iraqi families in need. He
can be reached at [email protected] )
