It’s funny though, even after all those times I’d seen death and even stood next to him, I had never really met him. I was too nervous, I suppose, or intimidated to strike up a conversation. Each time I had stood quietly, with my hands clasped together and head hung low, not daring to look up into the shadowed face above.
Everyone has a story about Death. He is an inextricable player in the great cast of the human experience, and in itself leads us to define life in so many unique and personal ways. Some find that Death is an unwanted yet unshakeable companion throughout their lives. He clings closer to some people and places then others. Some are so fortunate that they need not even consider Death, until his slow, steady paces gradually catch up to theirs and they may depart together as friends.
Sometimes it takes a crisis for us to meet Death in person. Having had such luck as to be born in Canada, my home nation hasn’t been fraught with facing death’s darker moods. From 2011-2017, over 230,000 civilians were massacred in the conflicts in Syria. 13.5 million people’s lives were torn apart, as death rampaged their cities and spat in their faces. Over 5.5 million refugees spread out across the world, searching for a chance to heal with what remained of their lives and families. Much of the world turned their shoulders haughtily away from those tear-stricken faces. Those parts of the world don’t like to have to look Death in face. Perhaps part of it is that they don’t know life all that well either. Many in Canada as well would have loved for the Government to have denied access to those broken refugees seeking to cross their borders to safety.
The Zionist movement began in 1897, and since then no generation has known true peace in the lands we now call Israel and Palestine. My community has never known the conflict of violence and war at its walls. Some have known it for over a century.
I can hear it in my own voice sometimes, and in the voices of my friends, colleagues, and countrymen; there is the hollow ring of privilege, the almost youthful ignorance that comes of not knowing Death and suffering. Just as I am not familiar with the depth of devastation and loss that is the birthright of so many, and cringe unwittingly at the thought of living through such raw pain, my culture tries to safeguard itself against acknowledging those realities. Turning a blind eye to the suffering of others does nothing to truly comfort us. Surrounding ourselves with nice things and reassuring ourselves with self-centered beliefs do nothing to make us whole.
I write this from my home, where we are quarantined against the COVID-19 outbreak. The world is slamming the brakes, locking the doors, and shuttering the windows as Death peers over the horizon. Unless forced to pay attention, developed nations of the world tend to ignore him at every chance they get; shuffling along sidewalks quickly with their convictions clasped tight in hand. It is one of the luxuries of living in such a nation. Death is like the ugly kid at a beauty pageant. He offends those who wish to look only at pretty things.
Death should arrive slowly, quietly, and peacefully after a life long lived, preferably in the comfort of one’s home surrounded by loved ones and filled to the brim with all of life’s achievements. In some times and places in the world, such an idea is impossible to imagine. When Death arrives abruptly at your door, drunk, yelling, and violent, fear sets in deep. A primal reminder of what is most important arises; family, life, safety. When you have nothing else left, the only goal is to stay alive.
Hence why we are locked up in our houses around the world. Only a virus could cause all of these nations who so avidly avoid Death’s gaze to freeze in their tracks and experience the creeping tendrils of that deep fear - the imminent fear for safety and the safety of loved ones. Fear for the freedom and security of their future.
It is bitter medicine, that which causes us to look Death in the face while still praying that we can avoid a more intimate introduction. This medicine is a reminder of who we are and where we come from. It is a reminder that those refugees escaping Syria, the Palestinian kids shot down in the street, the Italian elderly refused treatment for COVID-19 due to lack of beds and ventilators - these stories are more than numbers. They will never be numbers. What they will always be is true, real, terrifying, and heartbreaking human experiences.
