There was a shadow across my doorstep this morning.
I couldn’t tell what cast it until I stepped into it. The warm sun couldn’t hide the quiet presence; one whom we all know somehow or from some time of our lives. Death was casting his shadow over my doorstep.
I’ve never met Death, so I only know him as you know someone who you pass on the street every once in awhile, but never stop to exchange words with. I’ve heard about Death my entire life, at least as far back as my memory reaches. I can remember seeing him a few times. I saw him as a young kid in a ditch, down where the prairie meets the mountains. I saw him again as a child in a dimly lit church in Calgary. Another time I stood by him on a road in Guatemala. I remember seeing his shadow at times over the years too, casting his thin veil over the eyes of friends and family who had lost loved ones, and with whom Death still lingered.
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.
Again we are being called to remember our shared humanity. To recognize suffering in others as the same as suffering in ourselves. To see that we are stronger when we help each other. Death keeps writing divisive opinion pieces in our news media, playing games with fear and uncertainty. As his shadow infuses all that we read of viral outbreaks, violence in the middle east, water shortages, shifting climates and aggressive natural phenomena, his shadow weighs heavier on our shoulders. And still we try not to meet his gaze.
When we wilfully forget Death, or when we refuse to lift our nervously bowed heads to look into his gaze truly, we forget what it means to be human. Death is a reminder of what it means to live. Death asks us to be present and compassionate with the world around us. We are all walking the same path towards our inevitable meeting.
Perhaps this virus, which has managed to stop us for a moment to bear witness to the kind of suffering from which we have averted our eyes countless times, is really a call for us to pay attention to that shadow on our doorstep. Maybe it’s our time, as a culture who suppresses our emotions, to sit with death and get to know him a little bit. Maybe we can learn from him, and in doing so be more compassionate to the hardships of the world, gentler on the struggles of the less fortunate, open to shifting our ways to lessen the suffering of others, and to come to know life on a deeper level.
So when we emerge from our doorsteps around the world, when this particular threat has passed for now, it would do us well to emerge with greater compassion for each other, whether we look, think, or believe differently than each other. We would do well to expect that compassion from our leaders as well, whether in the political, religious or business spheres.
Hardships and suffering come to each of us. This is a something that we all share as humans, and that commonality is an opportunity to see ourselves in each other. When we extend a hand to others, it can be easier to pass through those shadows together.