Women In Black, watching
our world walk towards war ...
By Constance Perenyi
| Invocation
How different would our world be
If these men
Who have sold their souls for power
Could remember,
If indeed they ever knew,
The gentle sensation of hand on skin,
Of lip on lip?
For the sake of every living creature
I invoke the goddesses of love and life
To reach out one more time
Before it is too late.
Civilize these men with your touch.
With trembling fingers,
Trace the outlines of their barely beating
hearts.
Breathe sweetly,
Remind these men who reek of death
Of the smell of spring.
Let them dip their tongues
Into the ocean between your legs
Until they forget
The taste of blood and devastation.
I whisper your names
So you in turn will whisper theirs.
Come to them
In the middle of the darkest night.
Lay next to them,
Stroke them into recognition
So they can open their eyes
And see the faces
Of every being sacrificed
In their senseless wars.
Awaken them
In the middle of the darkest night,
So we on earth can watch for dawn.
|
There are moments this waiting is unbearable.
All of us, holding hope, praying for peace,
shutting out the insane bleating of the media
so we can find a moment of silence. In the silence,
we tell ourselves that each day we buy with
sheer will is in itself hopeful. Still, we are
haunted by the blood-chilling shrieks of jets
over distant, silent deserts.
I have hesitated to write about
war, about being an American, about standing
with Women in Black in the relatively peaceful
city of Seattle. I have held my breath, my words,
hoping that there might be resolution first,
that I could join in a loud, joyful chorus celebrating
the triumph of sanity and compassion. But it
all still hangs in the balance. We may be closer
or further. We do not know, will not know even
if war begins. We have nothing left to do but
take one last leap of faith.
For me, and for thousands of
women around the world, that leap has been into
silence. In 1988, a group of Israeli women joined
to witness and protest their country’s
bloody occupation of Gaza and the West Bank.
Overwhelmed by grief, with complete empathy
for the Arab women who also suffered the seemingly
endless loss of sons, brothers, husbands, lovers,
they wore their mourning clothes into the streets
and stood together without speaking a word.
Paradoxically, women had an
audible voice in the Middle East in 1988. On
both sides of the border, outspoken women in
Israel and Palestine were recognized as a political
force. But when Women in Black, as they came
to be known, found power in silence, the world
took notice. Their message and means spread,
and in 1991, women in Belgrade began weekly
vigils to protest the violence of the Serbian
regime. Soon, they were joined by women in Italy,
Spain, Germany, England, Azerbaijan, Colombia,
and the United States.
Despite a worldwide presence,
Women in Black is not a structured organization.
It is a loose and responsive network, a fact
that frustrates governmental surveillance agents
who would like to get their hands on official
membership lists. In 1993 when a WIB group formed
in New York City, founding members were harassed
by the FBI who, like others of their ilk around
the world, perceive silent, peaceful women as
subversive and threatening. And maybe that is
exactly what we are.
I began standing with Women
in Black in Seattle a year ago. Our weekly vigils
in a heavily trafficked shopping area draw as
many as 70 women of diverse age and background.
Many of us have spent our lives working for
justice and peace. Others, older and younger,
are experiencing activism for the first time.
Our only means of identification, besides black
clothing, is a WIB banner and a scattering of
signs. Men do not stand with us but are welcome
to participate by handing leaflets to passersby.
Our presence attracts attention.
Drivers honk and wave as they pass. Visitors
to the city snap photographs as if we were another
tourist attraction. People often stop to thank
us, a few even bow respectfully to the whole
group. Some try to engage us in conversation
not realizing that we are maintaining a silent
vigil. And still others feel compelled to taunt
and insult us, especially as war rhetoric intensifies.
A few weeks ago, one young man paced anxiously,
reciting scripture and then moving uncomfortably
close to each woman in the front row. Staying
calm and quiet can be a challenge, our chosen
silence keeping us simultaneously vulnerable
and protected.
In years of political activism,
I have never before chosen to express myself
this way. The rest of the week, I am vocal in
my opposition to war and occupation. I struggle
mightily with being an American and hope fervently
that the rest of the world understands how many
of us are fighting the blind forces of a government
that does not represent us. Each week in that
precious hour of silence, issues of nationality
dissolve. I am connected not only with the women
around me but with those in Iraq. What can they
possibly say to comfort their children as they
wait for the first bombs to fall? In my own
mourning clothes, I sense the despair of women
in Palestine and Afghanistan as they bury the
dead and hold tenaciously to what remains of
their world. And now, loving an Israeli man
at great distance, fearing for his safety, I
find myself inextricably linked to the women
of Israel whose hearts are scarred by betrayal
and pain, past and present.
Two weeks ago, I did not stand
with Women in Black. Instead, I watched from
afar so I could have a sense of how we looked
to the rest of the world. My first impression
was of a group of very somber, unapproachable
women. I looked away, at that moment a stranger
to their shared intensity and intimacy. And
then I was pierced by pangs of loneliness, as
if I watched them through an impenetrable barrier
that denied me access to vitality itself. Lately,
I awaken from nightmares of loss and separation
with similar feelings. I wonder how many other
people are staring into the darkness at the
same moment, trying desperately to understand
why humans choose to wage war when life is so
fragile.
This war hangs heavily over
all of us. It overshadows even our most carefree
moments. I believe that the only way we will
survive is by reaching out to other dreamers
in the darkness. When I turned back to look
at the women with whom I stand, my eyes brimmed
with tears of pride. There is dignity in our
quiet determination. We will stand in silence
as long as it takes to be heard.
Constance Perenyi
March 2003
