10 September 2023

9/11 and the calm metal instrument of Salvador Allende's voice


['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is the 218th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]         

Steve Almond, a short story writer and essayist from the United States of America, has reflected on 9/11 (‘The decade of magical thinking,’ in www.therumpus.net). At least on one occasion, he wrote down his thoughts.  That was 12 years ago. A decade allows one to have what he calls a long view.  So he could look back on the events that occurred on the 11th of September, 2001 from a distance of a decade. Steve Almond took a longer view or rather he imagined it.


‘Say you took the long view of September 11, 2001, the view from the heavens, the view of a compassionate celestial being. From up there, you’d see that approximately 150,000 earthlings died that day. Most of these deaths were caused by malnutrition and age-related illnesses, roughly 1500 were murders, hundreds more were due to civil wars. Also, 2,977 Americans were killed in terrorist attacks on New York City and Washington.’

That’s distance that is longer than time and therefore offers greater perspective. Almond does much more. He abstracts himself from the incident, time and distance to talk about the morality of memory; the what we remember and forget, the why and why not, and, by extrapolation, what we ought to do about it all.

Every victim was mourned privately, he reminds us. Such mourners and mourning go unreported.  That 9/11 was a spectacle that benumbed Almond’s country to the point that the vast majority of her citizenry found themselves mesmerised by what he calls ‘the raving of the demagogues’ whose demagoguery ‘provided cover for [their] own quieter, more subtle abdications.’

Almond says they were made to endorse the pursuit of ‘vengeance over mercy.’ Even the vengeance was misdirected; the benumbed citizenry were sold a lie about weapons of mass destruction that were non-existent.  Almond was correct when he pointed out that the people of the United States of America, ‘were deciding – with the help of all that deeply feeling propaganda on our television sets – that the only human suffering that mattered was American.’

If there was memory and amnesia, savage urge and suspension of empathy with regard to September 11, 2001, how on earth could Almond’s America even remember the other 9/11, the one that took place 5,125 miles away and 28 years before where the hand of the tragedy-dispenser was unmistakably American and therefore, unlike with regard to the 9/11 of 2001, it could not be considered, in Almond’s words, ‘a narcissistic injury that [Americans of the US could] return to as a talisman of self-victimization’?

That 9/11 ‘happened’ a half a century ago. Steve Almond wasn’t seven years old then. I was almost eight. He lived in Palo Alto, California at the time, 5,913 miles from Santiago, Chile. I was in Colombo, Sri Lanka, 9805 miles away. I don’t know how Almond spent that day and I can’t remember how it unfolded for me. However, I do know that at least one child, probably around our age, living in Santiago, had felt happy.

He was happy, as he told the makers of the documentary ‘Chile: Obstinate Memory,’ because it was a holiday. More than 20 years later, prior to watching a documentary by the same team ('La batalla de Chile: La lucha de un pueblo sin armas’ of ‘The Battle of Chile: The Struggle of an Unarmed People), led by Patricio Guzmán, many in the audience generally denounced Augusto Pinochet as a tyrant but also opined that had he not overthrown the president and government things could have been worse: ‘they were communists.’ The boy, a young man now, and in that audience, would have agreed.

Salvador Allende, the democratically elected President of Chile. On September 11, 1973, the military, led by General Pinochet, was ousted in a coup d'état supported by the CIA (acknowledged in 2000) with the full knowledge of the then US President, Richard Nixon and the United States government. Allende gave a farewell speech to Chileans on live radio, reaffirming his love for Chile and is reported to have killed himself with an AK -47 even as Pinochet’s men stormed La Moneda, the presidential palace.

'The people must defend themselves, but they must not sacrifice themselves. The people must not let themselves be destroyed or riddled with bullets, but they cannot be humiliated either. Workers of my country, I have faith in Chile and its destiny. Other men will overcome this dark and bitter moment when treason seeks to prevail. Go forward knowing that, sooner rather than later, the great avenues will open again and free men will walk through them to construct a better society. Long live Chile! Long live the people! Long live the workers! These are my last words, and I am certain that my sacrifice will not be in vain, I am certain that, at the very least, it will be a moral lesson that will punish felony, cowardice, and treason.' [listen to the full speech here]

That's hardly even a nutshell version of the political economic realities and Allende's heroic patriotism on behalf of the Chilean people. Anyway, after the screening was done, the audience went silent. The boy was asked about September 11, 1973. That’s when he said, ‘I was happy.’ He was happy, he said, because there was no school. Then he wept.

From the distance of time, that young man had exorcised the demagoguery that had quietly taken up residence in his mind and nurtured ‘quieter and subtle abdications.’

Centuries are owned by tyrants and demagogues. We can recover our hours, our moments of honour and integrity. As did that young man. As Steve Almond has so eloquently urged us all to do. And as did Salvador Allende, that man of dignity who loved his country and spoke his last words with the calm metal instrument that was his voice.

And that, thanks to the above-mentioned essay by Steve Almond, referred to me by my sister, Ru Freeman, when I told her that I want to write about Salvador Allende, is the thought I take away from that other 9/11 from half a century ago.

malindadocs@gmail.com.

Other articles in this series: 

What a memory-keeper foregoes 

Whitman, Neruda and things that wait in all things

Thilina Kaluthotage's eyes keep watch

Those made of love will fly

Profit: the peragamankaru of major wars

Helplessness and innocence

The parameters of entirety

In loving memory of Carrie Lee (1956-2020)

Mobsters on and off the screen

Transfixing and freeing dawns

We're here because we're here because we're here

Life signatures

Sha'Carri Richardson versus and with Sha'Carri Richardson  

A canvas for a mind-brush

Sybil Wettasinghe's shoes

Love is...

A stroll with Pragg and Arjun along a boulevard in Baku

Meditation on tree-art

Daya Sahabandu ran out of partners but must have smiled to the end

Gentle intrusions 

Sleeping well

The unleashing of inspiration

Write, for Pete's sake

Autumn Leaves Safeness

 Sapan and voices that erase borders

Problem elephants and problem humans

Songs from the vaekanda

The 'inhuman' elephant in a human zoo

Ivan Art: Ivanthi Fernando's efforts to align meaning

Arwa Turra, heart-stitcher

Let's help Jagana Krishnakumar rebuild our ancestral home

True national anthems

Do you have a friend in Pennsylvania (or anywhere?)

A gateway to illumination in West Virginia

Through strange fissures into magical orchards

There's sea glass love few will see 

Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha

Poisoning poets and shredding books of verse

The responsible will not be broken

Home worlds

Ownership and tenuriality of the Wissahickon

Did you notice the 'tiny, tiny wayside flowers'?

Gifts, gifting and their rubbishing

History is new(s)

Journalism inadvertently learned

Reflections on the young poetic heart

Wordaholic, trynasty and other portmanteaus

The 'Loku Aiya' of all 'Paththara Mallis'

Subverting the indecency of the mind

Character theft and the perennial question 'who am I?'

Innocence

A degree in people

Faces dripping with time

Saji Coomaraswamy and rewards that matter

Revolutionary unburdening

Seeing, unseeing and seeing again

Alex Carey and the (small) matter of legacy

The Edelweiss of Mirissa 

The insomnial dreams of Kapila Kumara Kalinga 

The clothes we wear and the clothes that wear us (down) 

Every mountain, every rock, is sacred 

Manufacturing passivity and obedience 

Precept and practice 

Sanjeew Lonliyes: rawness unplugged, unlimited 

In praise of courage, determination and insanity 

The relative values of life and death 

Feet that walk 

Sarinda's eyes 

Poetry and poets will not be buried 

Sunny Dayananda 

Reunion Peradeniya (1980-1990) 

What makes Oxygen breathable?  

Sorrowing and delighting the world 

The greatest fallacy  

Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi 

Beyond praise and blame 

Letters that cut and heal the heart 

Vanished and vanishing trails 

Blue-blueness 

A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya 

The soft rain of neighbourliness  

The Gold Medals of being 

Jaya Sri Ratna Sri 

All those we've loved before 

Reflections on waves and markings 

A chorus of National Anthems 

Saying what and how 

'Say when' 

Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra 

The loves of our lives 

The right time, the right person 

The silent equivalent of a thousand words 

Crazy cousins are besties for life 

Unities, free and endearing 

Free verse and the return key

"Sorry, Earth!" 

The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis 

The revolution is the song 

Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins 

The day I won a Pulitzer 

Ko? 

Ella Deloria's silences 

Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness 

Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable  

Thursday! 

Deveni: a priceless one-word koan 

Enlightening geometries 

Let's meet at 'The Commons' 

It all begins with a dot 

Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation 

'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone 

On sweeping close to one's feet 

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

To be an island like the Roberts... 

Debts that can never be repaid in full

An island which no flood can overwhelm 

Who really wrote 'Mother'? 

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing 

Heart dances that cannot be choreographed 

Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember 

On loving, always 

Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal 

When you turn 80... 

It is good to be conscious of nudities  

Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday  

There's a one in a million and a one in ten 

Gunadasa Kapuge is calling 

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California 

Hemantha Gunawardena's signature 

Pathways missed 

Architectures of the demolished 

The exotic lunacy of parting gifts 

Who the heck do you think I am? 

Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha' 

The Mangala Sabhava 

So how are things in Sri Lanka? 

The most beautiful father 

Palmam qui meruit ferat 

The sweetest three-letter poem 

Buddhangala Kamatahan 

An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello 

Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership 

The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked 

Pure-Rathna, a class act 

Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna 

Awaiting arrivals unlike any other 

Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles 

Matters of honor and dignity 

Yet another Mother's Day 

A cockroach named 'Don't' 

Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth 

The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara 

Sweeping the clutter away 

Some play music, others listen 

Completing unfinished texts 

Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn 

I am at Jaga Food, where are you? 

On separating the missing from the disappeared 

Moments without tenses 

And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have) 

The world is made of waves 

'Sentinelity' 

The circuitous logic of Tony Muller 

Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya' 

Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist 

Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses 

Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced 

Some stories are written on the covers themselves 

A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature 

Landcapes of gone-time and going-time  

The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie 

So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists? 

There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords 

The books of disquiet 

A song of terraced paddy fields 

Of ants, bridges and possibilities 

From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva  

World's End 

Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse 

Street corner stories 

Who did not listen, who's not listening still? 

The book of layering 

If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain 

The world is made for re-colouring 

The gift and yoke of bastardy 

The 'English Smile' 

No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5 

Visual cartographers and cartography 

Ithaca from a long ago and right now 

Lessons written in invisible ink 

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness' 

A tea-maker story seldom told 

On academic activism 

The interchangeability of light and darkness 

Back to TRADITIONAL rice 

Sisterhood: moments, just moments 

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging 

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha 

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows 

Sirith, like pirith, persist 

Fragrances that will not be bottled  

Colours and textures of living heritage 

Countries of the past, present and future 

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched 

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains 

The ways of the lotus 

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace 

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville 

Live and tell the tale as you will 

Between struggle and cooperation 

Of love and other intangibles 

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions 

The universe of smallness 

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers 

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills 

Serendipitous amber rules the world 

Continents of the heart
  
The allegory of the slow road

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