Glaring Omissions

In a three part piece, the Washington Times explores "God Under Fire In The Public Square." The articles are: "Religion Under Secular Assault," "Why Bush Threatens Secularism," & "Believers Aim to 'Reclaim' America." One point, made repeatedly, is that nowhere in the Constitution is the phrase "separation between church and state," or mention of any wall concerning the same, found. Indeed, the phrase, originally penned by Thomas Jefferson, is in a communique to a group of Connecticut Baptists. Later latched on to by the much-hated Supreme Court, the conservatives tell us that this omission is proof that the Framers intended no such barrier between neighbors.

But, at the time the idea of distinct separation between church and state was a bold innovation. Previously undone. So I would suggest it's omission is not surprising, much less decisive in any issue we face today. But, what is surprising to find absent, and what had always been included in documents of such historical import in the past, is any reference to God.

Eleonora

Anne Applebaum recounted the story of one Hava Volovich in a book she wrote entitled Gulag: A History. It's worth recounting. While in the gulag, Ms. Volovich had a child named Eleonora. As you'll read, although administrative personnel allowed women to stay with their children for a brief period after birth, the women were quickly ushered back into the workforce to ensure productivity.

"Everynight for a whole year, I stood by my child's cot, picking off the bedbugs and praying. I prayed that God would prolong my torment for a hundred years if it meant that I wouldn't be parted from my daughter. I prayed that I might be released with her, even if only as a beggar or a cripple. I prayed that I might be able to raise her to adulthood, even if I had to grovel at people's feet and beg for alms to do it. But God did not answer my prayer. My baby had barely started talking, I had hardly heard her first words, the wonderful heartwarming word 'Mama,' when we were dressed in rags despite the winter chill, bundled into a freight car, and transferred to the 'mothers' camp.' And here my pudgy little angel with the golden curls soon turned into a pale ghost with blue shadows under her eyes and sores all over her lips.

I saw the nurses getting the children up in the mornings. They would force them out of their cold beds with shoves and kicks . . . pushing the children with their fists and swearing at them roughly, they took off their nightclothes anad washed them in ice-cold water. The babies didn't even dare cry. They made little sniffling noises like old men and let out low hoots.

This awful hooting noise would come from the cots for days at a time. Children already old enough to be sitting up or crawling would lie on their backs, their knees pressed to their stomachs, making these strange noises, like the muffled cooing of pigeons.

One some of my visits I found bruises on her little body. I shall never forget how she grabbed my neck with her skinny hands and moaned, 'Mama, want home!' She had not forgotten the bug-ridden slum where she first saw the light of day, and where she'd been with her mother all of the time . . .

Little Eleonora, who was now fifteen months old, soon realized that her pleas for 'home' were in vain. She stopped reaching out for me when I visited her; she would turn away in silence. On the last day of her life, when I picked her up (they allowed me to breast-feed her) she stared wide eyed somewhere off into the distance, then started to beat her wak little fists on my face, clawing at my breast, and biting it. Then she pointed down at her bed.

In the evening, when I came back with my bundle of firewood, her cot was empty. I found her lying naked in the morgue among the corpses of the adult prisoners. She had spent one year and four months in this world, and died on 3 March 1944 . . ."

The Far Hills

Sorry, my legions of fans, for the sabbatical. I needed to look around and decide what kind of blog I wanted this to be. Initially, I was going to opine politically. A thorough review of the run-of-the-mill political blog has dissuaded me. I've decided that political blogs, by and large, are silly, pointless creatures. When one of them gets an idea, everyone within earshot repeats the same idea. It's like an echo chamber, but instead of fading the repetition becomes increasingly shrill. The sheer energy being expended wrapping outrage around everything is striking.

But, this isn't what dissuaded me. I can shrill. And I will shrill. I'll shrill to fill the thrill. The unforgiveable sin is that, in a way also reminiscent of echo chambers, there is no purposeful discussion. There is no purposeful debate. And the more I read the blogs the more I decided that whether or not there was supposed to be, there isn't going to be. And if this country needs anything right now, it's citizens need serious discussion on a panoply of fronts.

Lord knows I'm not going to give it to anybody. I'll write about what suits me, which will undoubtedly--if only occassionally--include the political. Believe me, we're better off this way. We don't need to go to Camelot. It is a silly place.