We must learn to love one another — or die

The pale-yellow crescent moon drifts just above the roof tops and trees, a sliver of light in the blue-black sky. The night is still, as if all things are at rest. There is no wind. It is quiet. Stars slowly appear, one by one, bright spots in the darkness. In the distance, they are like dust, swirling in graceful, misty arcs. I stand outside in the cool, evening air, looking up. I want to pray, but I cannot.

When I close my eyes, searching to find the words to pray, I see a sleepless mother holding her baby, underground and far away, leaning against a dirty, gray cement wall in a dimly lit tunnel. A patchwork blanket is swaddled tightly around her child, bundled against the winter chill. She feels the warmth of her little one and there is a soft rhythm to their breathing. Surely, she wishes she were home. Surely, she is frightened. And surely, she knows that trouble is falling from the sky above where she is huddled. She hears it rolling above her, through the streets, like thunder.

On the streets above, women wrapped in fur coats and long knit scarves walk in heavy shoes. They drag suitcases over the muddy and cracked sidewalks. Children stumble along next to them carrying pink and blue and yellow backpacks, full and zipped tight, heavy on their shoulders. Tiny little stuffed animals dangle from the pockets. The children’s hats are pulled low, just above their wide eyes; their cheeks and lips bright pink from the cold. They do not speak. They walk straight ahead and hope. Old men with watery, red-rimmed eyes, their backs hunched, trail behind. Watching. Weary. Smoky gray clouds are overhead, the air smells like danger and tastes like fear.

Hollow-eyed men will be gathering tonight, their faces deeply etched and hard, like stone.

They will meet in hidden places and speak in low tones, smoking cigarette after cigarette. They will wonder and wait.

They are the farmers and the teachers, shop owners and dancers, fathers and sons, brave and frightened and have no choice. Women, brows furrowed and dark eyes focused, join them, taking the guns, the weapons they are given, the helmets and the boots, because they must. They feel the cold, smooth metal in their hands and push away their fear. They will listen. They will learn how to shoot, where to hide and where to run. This is their home, these are their streets, this is their place.

And I am standing under a star-filled sky and cannot pray. Should I raise my hands and chant? Should I bow my head and murmur? Should I plead?

There is a psalm that says to look to the hills for that is where help will come from. I look to the hills and see nothing. My hands hang useless. And then I recall a poem that says all we have is a voice. The poet says that no one exists alone, that we must love one another or die. I wonder, in this dark night, if my voice, all our voices, are the prayer? The answer to the prayer? Are we to consider that no one exists alone and that love is the answer? Are our voices like smoke from prayer incense, rising up to speak for those that huddle underground, who run in fear, who stand bravely?

Long ago, my father was a soldier. Rarely would he speak of his time in the South Korean jungles and mountains, but I remember one story he told us of a child who approached him in a village. I imagine the child, barefoot and small, smooth skin speckled with dirt, his clear eyes looking up at my father.

The child was hungry so my father gave him what he had, a banana. That’s all he had to give. I can hear my father’s reassuring voice, speaking gently to the child, extending his open hand.

In the faraway places, between closed eyes and sleep, do those who attack, overrun and ravage, see the children’s faces? Do they see the mother’s tears? The father’s fear? Do they see their own children, their own fathers and mothers? Do they know that we, that they, do not exist alone?

The sliver of a moon is above me now, casting little light on the world below. If I could gather the children and carry them away, hold the mother’s hands, give a safe place to those that lay in the dirt, oh, I would. But all I have is my voice.

No one exists alone. We must love one another or die.