Today, my wife and I walked down to the courthouse in our little town with our baby daughter to finalize her adoption. She's been with us since she was born eight months ago. We waited patiently outside the courtroom with other adoption cases - one from Russia, another from China - one-by-one, families were invited through the imposing wooden doors that led to the courtroom. Our turn came, and we were led through the courtroom into the judge's chamber. We signed papers. The judge gave our daughter a stuffed animal. Photo-op, best wishes, and congratulations. Our long journey to find our daughter finally came to an end.
I have caught myself staring at the photo, shown here, over the past few days. It's of an unknown mother in Beslan, Ossetia, caressing her dead child's face in the wake of the school massacre by Islamic extremists last September. More than once, I thought of her today at the courthouse. My newfound fatherhood has magnified my sensitivities to horrors like this mother losing her child. And even worse - not merely losing her child to the grisly lottery of disease or random mishap - but to black, deliberate murder. I wonder if the Beslan mother can take comfort from another human being. I wonder if she has hardened her heart into stone: since humanity can be so callous, so cruel, and so pernicious, perhaps then no human can be trusted ever again. Not even for solace.
Our day was the antithesis of the photograph I show here. I can tell you that adoption is probably one of the most deliberate things you can do in life. It is no accident. It is a long process, of many trials. The process itself mirrors life, with its eddies and currents, misfortunes and luck. Adoption is like driving a car with foggy windows; you keep driving, and the gas pedal moves you forward. There's surprises along the way, and eventually you get somewhere.
I can let myself be weighed down by the world at times, perplexed at how best to ford its dangerous currents. Adoption is a weighty endeavor; but with the responsibility of parenthood comes a giddy sense of optimism when my new daughter's little eyes meet mine. It's as though she says not to worry, while also asking me to keep her safe. It's not obvious how to balance the sense of graveness and punch-drunkenness that comes with this little girl who pulls my nose.
'The Mother of Beslan' is a symbol of our time. This single photo is the equivalent of Michelangelo's Pietà for the 21st century. I can only try to feel this mother's butchered love screaming out for her lifeless child that she strokes so gently. Her pain blinds me. I cannot imagine her pain. We see in the photo the moment when a mother realizes her child is lost, and forever gone. We see two deaths, not one.
Beslan and massacres like it are often called tragedies. But they are not. Tragedy, in my mind, is a natural occurrence, a twist of fate. It is a tragedy when an illness kills a child, or when an earthquake destroys lives. Tragedies are sad, but there is no evil behind them - there is no moral component. The planned massacre of children in the name of a vindictive, bloodthirsty and sanguinary god is not a tragedy; it is a monstrous, sickening evil. It is a liquid, black ink that bleeds out of twisted souls who have lost their own humanity. The Beslans of this world are far, far beyond mere tragedy. Slaughtering human lambs on the altar of an insane cult is our darkest, most mortal foe.
If I were to nominate a person of the year, it would be this grieving mother who so moves me. She is a symbol of the darkness of this age we live in. Inhumanity's wages create a carnage of living dead as much as the lifeless bodies of children. Weep for her.
And yet, this age is not all darkness. My daughter sparkles, and toys with gravity. She's the long, hopeful road ahead. Extricated from the clutches of her own personal tragedy - born to a birth mother who could not love her - the miracles of this age collaborated to bring her to our home. The world is not all Beslan; there is hope and joy. It is bright, clear, and warm.
>>The planned massacre of children in the name of a vindictive, bloodthirsty and sanguinary god is not a tragedy; it is a monstrous, sickening evil.
Indeed. We should neither support nor condone such behavior.
Amen. I cry just thinking of it all. which is probably why I don't too much. I have noticed a HUGE increase in sensitivity since becoming a mother. There can be NO justification for hurting children - ever ever ever.
When I first saw that photo I too immediately saw Michelangelo's Pieta, but when I showed it to friends none of them felt (and 'felt' is the right word) it. I figured I was just nuts, but maybe I just need to expand my circle of friends.
How mighty bless that you now have your own little girl and that she has your loving family circle to keep her safe and warm.
'They' have been cheaply coined 'Security Moms' by political pundits, pollsters and commentators.
'They' are we...parents. Fathers and mothers.
Our children inspire the highest of highs and the lowest of lows in us.
...and the deepest, fiercest most unimaginable rage when pain and affliction is the result of the dark, evil works of animals.
We are not 'Security Moms' nor a voting bloc. We are parents who will instinctively protect our children without limits or concern for self.
If al Qaida (et al) ever wanted to wake the (still) slumbering giant, a Beslan-like attack on an American school would invoke a rage that would transcend all intenational politics that currently limit our pesruit of such beasts.
I choose to be frustrated by international politics. Let's hope the beasts continue to enjoy the protection it provides them.
Thank you for that post, Cicero. Best of luck and happiness to your new family.
"The planned massacre of children in the name of a vindictive, bloodthirsty and sanguinary god is not a tragedy; it is a monstrous, sickening evil."
"There is no curse in Elvish, Entish, or the tongues of Men bad enough for such treachery."
Tolkien
Cicero,
Congrats on your new-found fatherhood, and best of luck to you. Being a parent really makes these acts of utter depravity hit home. You hold your small child daily, and can easily imagine yourself as that mother. I have three children under four, and was horrified when I saw those pictures.
Islamofascists deserve no quarter from us. They butcher children without a second thought; they are so far removed from humanity that they plan attacks on schools and deliberately target civilians.
Cicero,
Those who have suffered misfortune--which is, sadly, most people--can appreciate the truth in your contrast of the adoption experience with the loss shown in that Beslan 'Pieta.'
The Beslan School Crisis Assistance Fund is high on my list of Christmas giving this year. Money won't address so many of the world's problems, but I suspect it will be useful to these families as they work at putting their lives back together in the aftermath of evil.
I am a father as well and only see potential and love in my young children. When I heard of the Beslan, I immediately stated to a co-worker that 'No good can come of this.' I was horribly correct. I immediately thought of my past natural tragedies and felt the knotted pain. I imagined the consequences of such evil laying it's cold hands on my children and the mote of pain was smothered in a quilt of blackness. I was both ashamed and uncomfortably proud that this existed within me.
Cicero
First let me say welcome to parenthood. All the books you've ever read and all the psycho babble throw it out the window. No child comes with an instruction book. May God bless and hold you and yours dear. As a loving parent you will hold on to what you have with a tenacity that not even each dieing breath will abate. Having four children of my own that much I know about myself.
I can understand your pain and anxiety concerning the new joy in your life. The Beslan event although atrocious is not uncommon. What is uncommon is the level and breadth of information dissemination. In today's world we can easily pick and choose the most shocking of events as much as we can easily pick and choose the most heart warming events.
The picture and thoughts that burn in your mind and strain to the limits the fiber of reason serves a purpose. It strengthens a resolve to protect that which we cherish most. The most horrifying event I can recall was that of a toddler stoned to death in Liverpool by children no less. To this day I can not get the vivid image of a toddler tears streaming down his face out of my head. A toddler getting up time after time to be struck again and again all the while not understanding that there are people in this world who can not be trusted. A little boy whose parents loved and cared deeply for him. A little boy who had not yet learned there are limits to unconditional trust. That image still burns in my brain to this very day.
Cicero, I agree with every particular of what you've said except one thing. Moving as the picture of that young mother is there is a better candidate for person of the year. I posted it when I first saw it.
I guess I'm more optimistic. If you knew me you'd know how remarkable that is.
I still remember rocking my feverish six-month old through a long night as images of half-naked children ran crying from a burning building and mothers looked desperately for their own. The heat from my son's body seared my chest and it felt like the world had gotten smaller and much worse. I wondered whether my parents ever felt the same way back in '68 when I was born -- that the world seemed to be coming off its hinges.
While my memories of that dark night still linger; there is too much work to be done and too many moments to enjoy. And I especially enjoyed your post. I wish your family long, healthy lives.
Patrick
When my daughter was born I went home from the hospital and turned on the TV to unwind. Remember "World at War"? It was on. A clip came on showing a nazi taking a child from a mother's arms. The mother screamed and cried, reaching for her child. Another German soldier pulled a pistol, put it to her head and pulled the trigger. The father stood and cried while they murdered his wife and took his child. I made up my mind that night that I would die starving, angry or fighting, not crying. I couldn't believe I could feel whole new feelings just because I was a father.
A month later I saw a newspaper picture of a Cambodian man with only one leg, the other a stump. He was leaning on homemade crutches, with a child on his shoulders, traveling to avoid being killed. And he was smiling. I tore the picture out and put it above my work place where it has stayed for 19 years. Whenever feel disgusted with the world, I look at that picture, and everything makes sense again.
First to thine own child be true. . .