Page 42 - Dark Matter:Women Witnessing Issue2

I often wonder what would happen if we could spark a global campaign of apology, of taking

responsibility for and grieving the outcomes of our earlier decisions and those of our predecessors -­‐

likely made from that reactive, traumatized state that seeks self-­‐protection or self-­‐medication above all

else. Who would we become as we gazed into each other’s eyes and atoned, together, for the world

we have made, for what we have done and undone? I am reminded of the dream that came to a dear

friend, a single phrase: Not enough tears.

American author, teacher and peacemaker, the late Fran Peavey, traveled the world, sitting on public

benches with a sign that read, American willing to listen.13 When did we stop listening? Are we willing

to listen now? If so, perhaps we will hear the sounds of our ancestors weeping, and recognize that

weeping as our own. Perhaps we will hear the weeping of Creation herself.

Trauma is suspicious of love and impervious to reason. It refuses to negotiate. It has been cheated

before and so it is wary and slow to trust. But if we begin to dance, to sway our bodies and tap our

feet, it will dance with us. When we are moving together, trust will grow. The rusty hinges of the heart

creak open. Memory returns. At this late hour, as the Ebola of greed devours us, I believe that all of it –

all of it—is traceable to the reservoir of trauma and unexpressed grief pooling beneath us. When

reference points (both internal and external) disappear, what can bring us back into meaning’s

embrace? Because trauma can render individual meaning unreliable, meaning that is communally

embodied and expressed is required. Because grieving is pro-­‐active, it lifts us out of the immobilizing

torpor of trauma. If we truly want to change the world, we must tend to our grief and, literally, return

to our senses. These are the modern, ancient tools of radical transformation. Do we have the courage

to grieve deeply enough to unwind trauma’s spiral?

My friend and colleague, Bill Saa, lost his brother Raymond during the Liberian civil war. Raymond was

tortured to death -­‐ his body hacked away piece by piece until he died. He was then buried in a shallow

roadside grave. For several years, Bill worked to learn the circumstances of Raymond’s death, to locate

the makeshift grave, and to find Raymond’s killer. When he had found the grave, Bill met with the local

elders of the nearby village, then gathered friends and family, including people from the community, to

help unearth the body so that they could bring Raymond back to the family compound, bury him there

13 Fran Peavey, Heart Politics, Black Rose Books, 1985