Every catastrophe seems to ring out, hitting the eardrum and cracking the skull. Every disaster ripples out, drowning all hungry eyes involved. And every tragedy spills its clammy fingers into our day, blocking any opportunity to sleep or eat, leaving behind weakness and ambivalence.
On November 13th, I was sitting on my comfortable couch, a bowl of chips on one side and my snoring dog on the other. On November 13th, Benjamin Cazenoves was in a dark hall, the sounds of guitar strums, drumming, and gunshots forming a most unwelcome cacophony.
Benjamin and I were across an ocean from one another, and yet I felt an overwhelming need to swim for however long it would take, to help him – along with every Parisian unjustly clawed at by calamity.
On November 13th, Paris suffered attacks, the force of gunfire and bombings splitting the city’s s into pieces. Bataclan Theater, La Belle Equipe bar, the terrace of the Casa Nostra pizzeria in Rue de la Fontaine au Roi, and a restaurant in Boulevard Voltaire are a few targets in the November 13th attacks. 128 are reported dead, but that number only seems to be making a steady and somber upward trend.
This isn’t humanity.
This is hunger.
Once primates, we have evolved from our animalistic ways. We want food? We don’t run to a tree, picking it, and spilling juice all over ourselves, letting the sticky substance trail down our chins and remain in between our fingers for hours to come. We want sex? We don’t trail a weaker looking mate, pressing our power upon them and leaving them for dead when we’re finished. We want power? We don’t run into stadiums, armed with AK- 47s , shooting at every innocent face we see, screaming gleefully, eyes gleaming.
At least that’s what I thought.
I was wrong, of course.
As a species we’ve begun to regress. We have slowly begun to peel off the coating of culture and progress our ancestors have spilled blood to create. We have climbed out of the squishy dermis of civilization, into the open arms of cruelty and chaos.
I understand this emotional appeal barely stands in contrast with the dark night and spilled blood, but this is my letter to humanity.
This is my letter – my plea – for a resolution. An end that does not result in the ending of lives. A resolution that can serve as a beginning for children who’ve never seen the sadistic sneer of an unremorseful murderer, for children who’ve never had smoke stuck in their lungs, dragging down their bodies in a heaving wreck, for children who have never felt lamentation and oil coursing through their veins.
This is only a letter yearning for change, and November 13th is only a date on a burned and cracking calendar, but they both have voices that will remain unrestful, howling for resolution. Now.
