Here's a well-articulated reflection on the challenges of personal peace-seeking from my good friend and fellow George Fox graduate, Kohleun:
I think deep down I’ve always been a pacifist. Violence in its many forms has unsettled me since I can remember hearing my older brother report a playground fight at his elementary school, or learning that spouse rape was incontestable in court in one last hold out state until I was six years-old, or seeing footage of the NYC World Trade Center falling to rubble when I was planning to go to the cinema to see The Princess Diaries, or watching George W. Bush blink hard as he reported a declaration of war on terror.
Until I began studying at George Fox University (named after one of the founders of the Society of Friends), pacifism as an identification wasn’t something I understood in a contemporary context. I pictured the “old days” when photos were in black and white and you had to take a side or none at all. Pacifism was something I respected and wanted to embrace, but I imagined one had to be an isolationist or at least a social/political puriya as a consequence. And I did NOT want to wear simple dresses and grow my hair out like in The Angel and the Bad Man.
Then I don’t know when it happened, because there was no aha! moment, just the slow coming to terms, but I began to identify myself with pacifism–with non-violent resistors.
read more . . .
Showing posts with label Kohleun Seo Adamson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kohleun Seo Adamson. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Friday, September 4, 2009
"If we read one another, we won't kill one another."
That is one of my favorite quotes from Naomi Shihab Nye. But though I steal it from her, the words were originally those of a different Arab scholar, Dr. Salma Jayyusi.
What do they mean? I don't pretend to know. I am not a politician or a world leader, and I have never tested the theory of reading poetry to end our wars.
Does the Israeli Prime Minster read the poetry of his Palestinian enemies? Would it make a difference if he did? Do the Palestinians, in turn, read the poetry of his people?
Could we change the world with words?
But then, what is "the world" anyway? Do I mean yours, or mine, or the place where they intersect?
Intersecting worlds is something that I do know something of. I stand in the strange and empty space where Arab and American collide. Where Muslims and Christians break bread together. And where a small Tunisian girl, with dark brown eyes, once smiled at her Western friend with golden curls.
And I know this is no more (or less) a miracle than a moment of connection, one Sunday over tea, in the tiny college town of Newberg, Oregon.
On a Given Sunday
by Kohleun Seo
Newberg, Oregon, February 2009
Nothing extraordinary or epic happens on Sunday afternoons. A small group of students meets in a campus apartment with blue mismatched furniture. We sip hot tea—steeped extra strong—and eat the benefits of my domestic skills. This week a tray of Scottish shortbread serves as our centerpiece on the coffee table with a bowl of almonds. Beside the table sits a stack of poetry, including an anthology titled Very Bad Poetry. We have no philosophical revelations. We pass around the volumes of verse. Pour the tea, stir in sugar and milk. And in that space we meet each other through metaphor and stanza.
Julia snatches up the Very Bad Poetry, and reads an ode to cheese, the elegy of a little blond girl who dies after eating her beefsteak supper, and the utter tragedy of a flopping dead man, who, upon his death, gives a resounding “Plop!”
“That was tragic,” I say.
“Kohleun, read ‘The Shirt’ in a ‘sexy’ voice,” Amberle says as I flip through Jane Kenyon’s collection, Otherwise.
“I don’t think I can do a ‘sexy’ voice without laughing, and I don’t have a ‘sexy’ laugh,” I reply.
“Just do it,” Arianne demands with her legs flung over the arm of a once-puffy chair that could easily fit two average-sized adults in its embrace. Four other voices echo Arianne’s sentiments, and I begin to read (and laugh). As I deepen my voice, we retrace the path of “the shirt” as it caresses a man’s neck and “slides down his side.” Karith and Alicia begin to laugh uncontrollably—one croaks and the other squeaks—both sound like they are hyperventilating as they try to hide flaming faces in each other’s sweatshirts, failing miserably. Meanwhile, Heidi is laughing at Karith, and Julia is straining to maintain a ‘serious’ demeanor, holding a smile down with her hands; but at the closing line, “Lucky shirt,” everyone rocks back in her seat and cheers.
“This is definitely going on Facebook,” Amberle says, turning off her digital camera, which has video capabilities, apparently.
“More! More!” Alicia chants and wipes her eyes.
Julia continues to thumb through Very Bad Poetry. “’Only One Eye’ by Lillian Curtis,” she reads then clears her throat, “I love the gentle girl, But oh! I heaved a sigh, When first she told me she could see Out of only one eye.” Groans and various other ‘verbal responses’ escape our lips.
“The appropriate title, “Arianne asserts, “should be ‘The Two-eyed Idiot.’”
Amberle looks to Arianne and says, “I’ve found the poem of your life!” and hands her Mary Karr’s Sinners Welcome, opened to page thirty-two.
“’Miss Flame, Apartment Bound, as Undiscovered Porn Star’?”
“Yep.”
“Read it in a ‘sexy’ voice,” I tease.
And she does.
We learn things about Arianne we had never imagined.
I am on my third cup of tea. Julia runs into the kitchen to put another kettle of water on the hob to boil, and rushes back to recline on the large pillow beside me. While cold rain hits the roof and windows, inside, the heater creates a hum of its own as it floods warmth into the room.
From her corner on the couch, Karith moves her body forward, as if immerging from a secret cavern. She has been cradling Naomi Shihab Nye’s You & Yours for the past fifteen minutes. “I want to read a serious poem. It’s one of my favorites, but first, are there any staunch Bush supporters?”
If there are, no one admits it.
We chuckle a bit when Karith reads from “He Said EYE-RACK”: “On St. Patrick’s Day 2003, President Bush wore a blue tie” But we go silent when she reads:
. . . He said, “We are
against the lawless men who
rule your country, not you.” Tell that
to the mother, the sister, the bride. . .
the librarian careful with her shelves.
“Hmm,” we buzz in our throats, surrounded with books of our own. I straighten a dog-eared corner; Karith closes the book and smoothes its golden cover with her fingers. Alicia twists her wedding ring around its freckled finger. We are all sisters. Some of us are married. We have witnessed our own personal ruinations, though missiles have not exploded our markets and neighborhoods. Heidi, who recently lived in Cairo, leans closer to Karith. Amberle collapses her chin into her hands. And I remember the Palestinian mothers I met in Bethlehem. We chew our almonds quietly.
In this quiet moment, I turn to Ted Kooser and “The Jar of Buttons.” The poem begins like an epic tale on the high sea: “This is a core sample from the floor of the Sea of Mending,” a circle of women that spans generations. I look around the room at friends—some of whom have never met each other before this Sunday—this gathering around tea and shortbread, and I continue reading:
generations of women set forth,
under the sails of gingham curtains,
and, seated side by side
on decks sometimes salted by tears,
made small but important repairs.
After a few more rounds of tea, and we are all more than sufficiently caffeinated and smell of butter and nuttiness, each woman rises to leave. We say our good-byes for the day, maybe even the week, and embrace or kiss air by the cheek.
I stand at the door as rain continues to pour over the eaves, watching my friends walk away, and I squeeze Karith’s shoulder. The almond bowl is almost empty, and the striped fabric napkin, which played the role of tablecloth, is covered in crumbs. I know we have done nothing grand here, nor have we mended shirts or curtains, but we swabbed the decks of other generations with our tea, and rinsed them in the splash of our laughter.
What do they mean? I don't pretend to know. I am not a politician or a world leader, and I have never tested the theory of reading poetry to end our wars.
Does the Israeli Prime Minster read the poetry of his Palestinian enemies? Would it make a difference if he did? Do the Palestinians, in turn, read the poetry of his people?
Could we change the world with words?
But then, what is "the world" anyway? Do I mean yours, or mine, or the place where they intersect?
Intersecting worlds is something that I do know something of. I stand in the strange and empty space where Arab and American collide. Where Muslims and Christians break bread together. And where a small Tunisian girl, with dark brown eyes, once smiled at her Western friend with golden curls.
And I know this is no more (or less) a miracle than a moment of connection, one Sunday over tea, in the tiny college town of Newberg, Oregon.
On a Given Sunday
by Kohleun Seo
Newberg, Oregon, February 2009
Nothing extraordinary or epic happens on Sunday afternoons. A small group of students meets in a campus apartment with blue mismatched furniture. We sip hot tea—steeped extra strong—and eat the benefits of my domestic skills. This week a tray of Scottish shortbread serves as our centerpiece on the coffee table with a bowl of almonds. Beside the table sits a stack of poetry, including an anthology titled Very Bad Poetry. We have no philosophical revelations. We pass around the volumes of verse. Pour the tea, stir in sugar and milk. And in that space we meet each other through metaphor and stanza.
Julia snatches up the Very Bad Poetry, and reads an ode to cheese, the elegy of a little blond girl who dies after eating her beefsteak supper, and the utter tragedy of a flopping dead man, who, upon his death, gives a resounding “Plop!”
“That was tragic,” I say.
“Kohleun, read ‘The Shirt’ in a ‘sexy’ voice,” Amberle says as I flip through Jane Kenyon’s collection, Otherwise.
“I don’t think I can do a ‘sexy’ voice without laughing, and I don’t have a ‘sexy’ laugh,” I reply.
“Just do it,” Arianne demands with her legs flung over the arm of a once-puffy chair that could easily fit two average-sized adults in its embrace. Four other voices echo Arianne’s sentiments, and I begin to read (and laugh). As I deepen my voice, we retrace the path of “the shirt” as it caresses a man’s neck and “slides down his side.” Karith and Alicia begin to laugh uncontrollably—one croaks and the other squeaks—both sound like they are hyperventilating as they try to hide flaming faces in each other’s sweatshirts, failing miserably. Meanwhile, Heidi is laughing at Karith, and Julia is straining to maintain a ‘serious’ demeanor, holding a smile down with her hands; but at the closing line, “Lucky shirt,” everyone rocks back in her seat and cheers.
“This is definitely going on Facebook,” Amberle says, turning off her digital camera, which has video capabilities, apparently.
“More! More!” Alicia chants and wipes her eyes.
Julia continues to thumb through Very Bad Poetry. “’Only One Eye’ by Lillian Curtis,” she reads then clears her throat, “I love the gentle girl, But oh! I heaved a sigh, When first she told me she could see Out of only one eye.” Groans and various other ‘verbal responses’ escape our lips.
“The appropriate title, “Arianne asserts, “should be ‘The Two-eyed Idiot.’”
Amberle looks to Arianne and says, “I’ve found the poem of your life!” and hands her Mary Karr’s Sinners Welcome, opened to page thirty-two.
“’Miss Flame, Apartment Bound, as Undiscovered Porn Star’?”
“Yep.”
“Read it in a ‘sexy’ voice,” I tease.
And she does.
We learn things about Arianne we had never imagined.
I am on my third cup of tea. Julia runs into the kitchen to put another kettle of water on the hob to boil, and rushes back to recline on the large pillow beside me. While cold rain hits the roof and windows, inside, the heater creates a hum of its own as it floods warmth into the room.
From her corner on the couch, Karith moves her body forward, as if immerging from a secret cavern. She has been cradling Naomi Shihab Nye’s You & Yours for the past fifteen minutes. “I want to read a serious poem. It’s one of my favorites, but first, are there any staunch Bush supporters?”
If there are, no one admits it.
We chuckle a bit when Karith reads from “He Said EYE-RACK”: “On St. Patrick’s Day 2003, President Bush wore a blue tie” But we go silent when she reads:
. . . He said, “We are
against the lawless men who
rule your country, not you.” Tell that
to the mother, the sister, the bride. . .
the librarian careful with her shelves.
“Hmm,” we buzz in our throats, surrounded with books of our own. I straighten a dog-eared corner; Karith closes the book and smoothes its golden cover with her fingers. Alicia twists her wedding ring around its freckled finger. We are all sisters. Some of us are married. We have witnessed our own personal ruinations, though missiles have not exploded our markets and neighborhoods. Heidi, who recently lived in Cairo, leans closer to Karith. Amberle collapses her chin into her hands. And I remember the Palestinian mothers I met in Bethlehem. We chew our almonds quietly.
In this quiet moment, I turn to Ted Kooser and “The Jar of Buttons.” The poem begins like an epic tale on the high sea: “This is a core sample from the floor of the Sea of Mending,” a circle of women that spans generations. I look around the room at friends—some of whom have never met each other before this Sunday—this gathering around tea and shortbread, and I continue reading:
generations of women set forth,
under the sails of gingham curtains,
and, seated side by side
on decks sometimes salted by tears,
made small but important repairs.
After a few more rounds of tea, and we are all more than sufficiently caffeinated and smell of butter and nuttiness, each woman rises to leave. We say our good-byes for the day, maybe even the week, and embrace or kiss air by the cheek.
I stand at the door as rain continues to pour over the eaves, watching my friends walk away, and I squeeze Karith’s shoulder. The almond bowl is almost empty, and the striped fabric napkin, which played the role of tablecloth, is covered in crumbs. I know we have done nothing grand here, nor have we mended shirts or curtains, but we swabbed the decks of other generations with our tea, and rinsed them in the splash of our laughter.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Philosophical Inquiry
At its core, peacemaking is about presence. About two people encountering each other as human.
This is a reminder of why we live. And what we live for.
you are doing, my love—
how time, a distant relative,
has sketched your face
in lines and circles,
how you see the world
when your eyes are shut
and you are sleeping,
consciousness only memory,
or how you fill space
with your body, moving
past wholes and halves
of steps towards me,
this moment a justified belief.
-Kohleun Seo
This is a reminder of why we live. And what we live for.
Philosophical Inquiry
I just want to know howyou are doing, my love—
how time, a distant relative,
has sketched your face
in lines and circles,
how you see the world
when your eyes are shut
and you are sleeping,
consciousness only memory,
or how you fill space
with your body, moving
past wholes and halves
of steps towards me,
this moment a justified belief.
-Kohleun Seo
Saturday, February 7, 2009
the stonecutter's wife: a life in poetry
This is maybe my favorite of Kohleun's poems. The reasons are many. For one, I was with her when she met this family in Bethlehem, and her words call the experience to mind with a clarity that is sacred in its power. There was so much beauty in that home. So much hope. And yet, at the same time, so much pain. The courage of this woman and her family -- to create beauty in the face of violence -- will always awe me. She is the person, the peacemaker, that I want to be.
I posted my reflection on the experience (in prose poetry) a couple of months ago: Bethlehem: the things that made me cry [the stonecutter's family]
I posted my reflection on the experience (in prose poetry) a couple of months ago: Bethlehem: the things that made me cry [the stonecutter's family]
Rebuilding
life
stone
earth
one we carve
to build upon
the other
each boulder
by hand
and lay it
piece by piece
together
my husband
and I
there was a time when this all laid flat against the earth
when bulldozers ripped the house apart, twice
nothing as gentle as piece by piece
no patient sculpture’s mallet and chisel
One by one, they take my boys from me
a soldier their same age will go home
and tell his mother about capturing another
Palestinian threat, and she will thank God he is safe
and I will sit here
in my house of stone
preparing for
lives of my life
who have not returned
five hundred years?
I will wait that long
unto death?
I will rebuild
something beautiful
out of rubble
serve them tea
in clear glass
with sugar
and mint
I will stir it slowly
-Kohleun A. Seo
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
In Gaza
Something broke long ago
tender neck, brittle bones,
olive branch in the desert.
And how do we make
repairs to the dead?
Straighten the spine,
push rebar through marrow,
sew ring-ed time and bark?
Do we let the wounds lie, hoping
they will close with the hours?
Only the living form scars
and even those burst
unprotected.
-Kohleun Seo (Dec. 30, 2008)
tender neck, brittle bones,
olive branch in the desert.
And how do we make
repairs to the dead?
Straighten the spine,
push rebar through marrow,
sew ring-ed time and bark?
Do we let the wounds lie, hoping
they will close with the hours?
Only the living form scars
and even those burst
unprotected.
-Kohleun Seo (Dec. 30, 2008)
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Gaza is in pain
It's the Sunday after Christmas. Carols are still reverberating through our churches and our homes. The Christmas story is fresh in our minds, and we've all been told that the angels sang news of great joy: peace on earth and good will towards men. But in Gaza, as they suffer air-raid after air-raid, I'm sure the message rings a little hollow.
Jewish Peace News writes, "Reports indicate that Israeli air strikes today alone [Dec. 27] have killed 205 People in Gaza and have left over 400 more hurt. These strikes come after several weeks of a tight blockade which left many of Gaza's 1.5-million inhabitants without sufficient food, water, fuel or medicine." They urge Americans to take action and write to their congressmen, their senators, and President-Elect Obama.
Kohleun Seo reflects on watching the news from her home in Arizona:
Brothers and sisters, it's Christmas. A new year is about to start. It isn't enough to want change, or vote for change, we need to be change. Please join me in praying for the fathers and mothers and daughters and sons and husbands and wives and grandmothers, grandfathers, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers, cousins, teachers, mentors, great-grandparents . . . in short, the flesh and blood human beings who are losing their lives and their loved ones right now, today. Don't close your eyes. Don't go back to your carol singing as though no babies are crying behind a wall in Bethlehem or under fire in Gaza. Pray on your knees for justice. For peace. And yes, do write that letter to your congressman.
Jewish Peace News writes, "Reports indicate that Israeli air strikes today alone [Dec. 27] have killed 205 People in Gaza and have left over 400 more hurt. These strikes come after several weeks of a tight blockade which left many of Gaza's 1.5-million inhabitants without sufficient food, water, fuel or medicine." They urge Americans to take action and write to their congressmen, their senators, and President-Elect Obama.
Kohleun Seo reflects on watching the news from her home in Arizona:
In the words of Naomi Shihab Nye, "This is not a game. This was never a game."And Tabula Gaza has no words.
What can I say as an outsider, watching from afar, caught in a different time zone, peering through news reports? Does anyone hear the bombs, the screams? According to BBC News, today was the most violence-filled day in the history of the Gaza Strip. You would think that would be hard to accomplish. I really don't know what to say right now as I take it all in, sitting on my sofa late at night. Inside I want to scream with each Palestinian woman, man, and child.
Will this day, this year be remembered as another 1948, another 1967? Will next year be different?
Brothers and sisters, it's Christmas. A new year is about to start. It isn't enough to want change, or vote for change, we need to be change. Please join me in praying for the fathers and mothers and daughters and sons and husbands and wives and grandmothers, grandfathers, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers, cousins, teachers, mentors, great-grandparents . . . in short, the flesh and blood human beings who are losing their lives and their loved ones right now, today. Don't close your eyes. Don't go back to your carol singing as though no babies are crying behind a wall in Bethlehem or under fire in Gaza. Pray on your knees for justice. For peace. And yes, do write that letter to your congressman.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Remembering War: the Imperial War Museum
Here's a different perspective on the trip to the Imperial War Museum: Remembering War. Kohleun (the blog's writer) raises questions about why, and what, we remember about war:
In the main room fighter planes hung from the ceiling with huge propellers. Tanks of many shapes parked in various places shone with green paint. And the largest bullet stood straight up, looking to the sky. But this was dwarfed by the massive bomb in the middle of the atrium, visible from all balconies.The above extract is short, but it gives you a sense of her perspective. I was reading through the comments she'd received, and especially liked the following from Michelle:
And I can't help but think, that is not the stuff of life. Manipulated metal and explosives are not the stuff to base our memories upon.
"Let the sight of rubble be forever present before the leaders' eyes so that the flame of peace will light constructive solutions in their minds."I certainly hope so.
So can we forget (or forgive) war to the extent that we let go of victim/perpetrator status but remember it to the extent that we are motivated to make peace?
Friday, September 12, 2008
Kohleun's Bethlehem Poem, Published
So, if you're familiar with my site, you've probably run across Kohleun's name a few times. Her blog, Poems from a Small Place, is filled with wonderful poetry about peace and gender and the small details of living. This summer she visited Palestine, Israel, and Jordan, and much of her recent poetry (such as "A Letter to the President of the United States") was inspired by her trip.
And now for the exciting news: she just had one such poem, "For Those Who Talk to Plants," published by Poets Against War. Go check it out. :)
And now for the exciting news: she just had one such poem, "For Those Who Talk to Plants," published by Poets Against War. Go check it out. :)
Sunday, February 10, 2008
A Poem for Childhood
This poem was written for a child who died.
For me, it draws images of all the children, in all the refugee camps, who never had a chance to have this. To experience life in all its simplicity and wonder. Never got to be children, or have a childhood.
All the children who grow old too fast.
Language at 19 Months
for Corbin and Karith
things are very simple here
yes means yes and no is flexible
we know this
pain hurts we do not want that
but when it comes we cry
i curl up somewhere and wait
you see laughter is sure to follow
we laugh because we’re happy
sometimes it’s hard to laugh alone
the sun is bright here
it burns my eyes and nose
a girl gives me her hat
she’ll be my friend forever
forever is longer than we’ll live
she’ll be my friend forever
there’s glitter here too
the darkness even sparkles
colors are colored a thousand times thick
someone smiled at me
her skin must have been layers and layers
and oh how i wanted to match
so i hugged her face with my hands
she left glitter on my fingers
a woman closes her eyes and talks to the sky
says she wants to see its face
i do
-Kohleun
For me, it draws images of all the children, in all the refugee camps, who never had a chance to have this. To experience life in all its simplicity and wonder. Never got to be children, or have a childhood.
All the children who grow old too fast.
Language at 19 Months
for Corbin and Karith
things are very simple here
yes means yes and no is flexible
we know this
pain hurts we do not want that
but when it comes we cry
i curl up somewhere and wait
you see laughter is sure to follow
we laugh because we’re happy
sometimes it’s hard to laugh alone
the sun is bright here
it burns my eyes and nose
a girl gives me her hat
she’ll be my friend forever
forever is longer than we’ll live
she’ll be my friend forever
there’s glitter here too
the darkness even sparkles
colors are colored a thousand times thick
someone smiled at me
her skin must have been layers and layers
and oh how i wanted to match
so i hugged her face with my hands
she left glitter on my fingers
a woman closes her eyes and talks to the sky
says she wants to see its face
i do
-Kohleun
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
More Gender, Peace, and Poetry
Just to give you a taste, here are two of my favorite poems from Kohleun's site, Poems From a Small Place.
They will try to divide you—body
cleanly from soul—and tell you
where your beauty lies.
No mosaic here,
no puzzle of pieces fit.
One loose shard, a fragment
of your being, will be
lovely and desirable.
They will prize and polish it
‘til it shines from wax and gloss.
Fill in the "h", the "u".
Tack on an "r" here and there.
Of course that's what they meant
to say. Uh huh. I know
how we were all there when
Christ fed the five thousand
(not including women and children).
A star for the wise men,
angels sent to shepherds, pastors
of the fields. Such light
that shown all around
as they proclaimed, "Peace
on earth, good will toward men"
(that explains a lot).
On that night a savior came
for whomsoever believes. The Son
of God, Son of Man.
Humble carpenter of Nazareth,
poor and not handsome--
like a lamb led to the slaughter is silent
(truly a woman's son).
Monday, February 4, 2008
Poetry for Women, Peace for All
My brother often tells me that there can be no peace for any, until there is peace for all.
That is why he is a feminist, but calls himself a humanist. Why he loves Israelis, as well as Palestinians, and why he reaches out to Americans, and not just Arabs. It is why the Palestinian-Israeli conflict is not more important to him than the genocide in Sudan or Uganda. And why he believes that his treatment of the lady in the supermarket is as significant as any anti-war protesting.
We are all connected.
I believe this too. But I find, in practice, it very hard to live.
In honor, however, of peace of all kinds, I would like to recommend that you visit Poems from a Small Place. Much of the author's poetry deals with gender, and the need to reconcile female identity with Christianity, culture, and all of life. The need to restore wholeness to the way we view food, image, and beauty. The need for peace amidst the clash of words like "important" and "insignificant." After all, who is to decide such labels? Who gets to assign such worth?
In the end, doesn't conflict come down to this? To the way we view each other. The way we determine value. The way we deny common humanity. It doesn't have to be overt to be real.
That is why he is a feminist, but calls himself a humanist. Why he loves Israelis, as well as Palestinians, and why he reaches out to Americans, and not just Arabs. It is why the Palestinian-Israeli conflict is not more important to him than the genocide in Sudan or Uganda. And why he believes that his treatment of the lady in the supermarket is as significant as any anti-war protesting.
We are all connected.
I believe this too. But I find, in practice, it very hard to live.
In honor, however, of peace of all kinds, I would like to recommend that you visit Poems from a Small Place. Much of the author's poetry deals with gender, and the need to reconcile female identity with Christianity, culture, and all of life. The need to restore wholeness to the way we view food, image, and beauty. The need for peace amidst the clash of words like "important" and "insignificant." After all, who is to decide such labels? Who gets to assign such worth?
In the end, doesn't conflict come down to this? To the way we view each other. The way we determine value. The way we deny common humanity. It doesn't have to be overt to be real.
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