Had I been raised Catholic, I'm pretty sure my mother would eventually be eligible for Sainthood. I speak with no sarcasm; I sincerely believe she'd survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage?) of either elderly women, or felons. These are her causes.
I don't think she stands alone. Many of the mothers she has surrounded herself with over the years have been women made of the stuff that goes miles beyond basic high moral fiber. These are those who time and again have sacrificed literally everything they have for things only important in spiritual realms, tended the sick and poor when no one else would, and put up with all manner of bullshit people with a smile and a heartfelt promise to 'pray for them.'
Those of you who know me understand that I am agnostic. I have no idea whether there is a G-d, in the sense the Christians who surround me describe. But I do believe that the Universe answers when my mother prays. I have seen her stop storms, and avoid accidents, and rain healing on sickness, and once even pray me up from a C+ to an A- that can ONLY be described as miraculous--based on a test score that amazed even me.
These are serious credentials, and they form the image that comes to mind when I think of women who are walking ever more slowly through their last years of middle age.
Years spent watching the world through the lens of a Betacam have given me a 'different' perspective on video. I don't see things just "happening" when I watch real-life motion pictures, I see people. I smell things, and I imagine the emotions of the person holding the camera.
These senses add a dimension to the sounds and sights of video for me. I automatically default to the question of what has caused the operator to focus on this image, given 360 degrees of possibility. I try to envision what motives determine the instant they start and stop recording. I ponder the nearest stable surface potentially available to steady the shot. I sometimes question if they have the fortitude ... beyond the bravery required to stand still and push record ... to keep their eyes open as the image they are capturing spins into permanent imprisonment on the tape or disk inside the device.
The news junkie in me has been glued to twitter, and youtube, and http://www.huffingtonpost.com for more than two weeks now, as Tehran, Iran has been engulfed in a National protest of epic proportions.
I watched Neda die.
And even though that is the image that will most likely live forever as the touchstone of this moment in history, it is not the one that has seared me most deeply.
That image came Saturday, June 20th, at 4:04 ET.
I've been following the liveblog of a journalist--and if you know me, you know that's a title I don't give every person with a pen and tablet, particularly in the blogosphere--named Nico Pitney, who has been gathering and chronicling the sacred, sublime, and surprising moments of this event from the beginning.
At that moment, Niko posted the video that crystalized my opinion on events in Iran. Here's how he (and Chas, the reader) described it:
Here is another longer video with some graphic content near the end. Reader Chas sums it up: "Its a roaming shot of protesters walking toward a street corner where people are already clashing with the militia, Women hand them rocks on the way, and when they get there shots are fired and the crowd carries back a man who has been hit, and then the crowd retreats away from the scene, showing the blood of the man who has apparently been killed."What followed was a video that is almost benign compared to some of the more graphic images oozing out of this newly christened war zone. It is precisely as Chas articulates.
I watched it. And women in burqas handed the protestors rocks as they walked toward an inevitable clash with the militia.
And I thought of my Saint Mom.
And I tried to picture the scenario where that gentle, kind, praying, weeping, helpful, honest, hard-working woman would hand me a rock to throw at the soldiers coming down the street.
And it hit me.
If that moment ever came, it would be right. I would take that rock, and walk toward whoever was coming; with their batons, and their guns, and their shields, and their tear gas, and their
fear, and their rage, and their orders, and their intent.
I would hurl that rock as hard as I could and pray the prayer of David to guide my stone and make it an instrument of death.
It was in that moment, as I watched this relatively benign little dispute on a tiny screen, happening in a country 6500 miles from me, that their mini-war became something more than a news event to me. The truth is, I don't care who won their election. I don't understand their politics, and have no vested interest in Mousavi, or Ahmedinijad, or Khameni, or Rafsanjani. I would not know the difference in a Mullah and an Ayatollah if that knowledge could ensure me eternal life with 40 virgins.
But among that group of rock-givers, I believe are some good women. One or more of those women would probably survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage) of elderly women, or felons, or the downtrodden--because these are her causes.
And I would hope that in spite of my agnosticism; in a fight like this one, you would count me as accepting the potentially fatal gift from a Saint handing out stones.
Peace,
--Stew.
Photo:
http://www.iranian.com/History/2000/March/Women/Images/demo17.jpg
