A Plea for Help from the War Zone
Imagine what it’s like to write a document for the Appeals Court, rush to submit it, without review, while waiting for an ambulance because your child is bleeding after yet another suicide attempt. All the while you’re drafting a high-stakes piece, with the deadline today, you have to juggle first aid, calling a therapist, calming the child, and hope that the ambulance arrives in time. All the while, you’re dying inside, holding back tears, steadying voice, typing in-between. You’ll cry later. And vomit, hard. You’ll shake and shiver. But later.
Imagine what it’s like to tell a victim to stall. Release all the rage, resentment, pain. But calm! Calm, before filing a report. There mustn’t be more casualties. We are at war.
But this time, Mom and Dad are fighting. Russia versus the West. And all the while, your child is bleeding. You’re caught in the Midlands, a strike of crossfire. And none must die. You love both sides. Both rivers run through your veins. And bleeding doesn’t help, but bleeding doesn’t stop.
You’re at your wits end. You’re just a conduit through which past ghosts play Hamlet, calling for an Armageddon. You speak both Russian and English, but diplomacy fails. You’re at war. Filing for Appeals. Inside, you’re on your knees, praying. For when all else has failed, and hope long gone, we pray. Perhaps, the gods will listen and stop the bleeding when all of us join hands.
I’d die for my child if I could. I’d die a thousand times. But there are lines that once they’re crossed, demand resolve, demand a cure, else the child will live a lie. I have two daughters, and none of them must fall. They both are half-bloods under the Cruciatus Curse. I called for Patronus, but only Dementors are coming. I need to save Middle-Earth and keep Winterfell.
Mom, I’ve devoted my whole life to learning diplomacy. Before I die, I’ll leave a legacy. You are the Dowager Queen made Regent, call the President!
Dad, I need you to listen. You are the Commander in Chief. I need you to hold the troops. Don’t shoot! Let’s turn this show of Hamlet into A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
I may or may not have grandchildren, but I will do anything in my power to hand them over a lineage they can be proud of.
I’m in pain, Mom! But it’s the pain of labor. I had to drop all other balls because my hands are busy, holding my daughters. All other balls are rubber, they’ll bounce. Right now, I’m birthing new meaning. I need you, my parents, to know. This isn’t about me; it is about us. This time, it is political, it’s bigger than me. I need you to sit at one table, I need you to breathe. Breathe! Breathe with me as I birth. And pray her name is not Sahara. Pray I birth New Zealand. And, in case I die, just know I love you both. My parents and my children. And if you cannot settle this, we may not have grandchildren.
Thank you for your help! I promised to be at your service once my hands are free. Now, you can ask for anything but my daughters. They aren’t up as collateral. You can have my time, however, any way you see fit. Thank you for being there for me! I heard your voices. And then I sensed your smell. Raw, straight from the war. It was as if we were in one room, talking. You know, the world is wireless. And it doesn’t matter if we prefer Tom and Jerry or Ну, погоди! As long as we can share one room, no matter how remote, I know we have a future. Thank you for your help!
We are all actors. And the world is a stage. God has dealt our cards. It’s up to us how we play our hand. One hand we have only, and all the cultures are the deck. If we hate what the playwright has written, we can reshuffle the deck. But either way, the hero has a thousand faces and roots in all the corners of the world. Perhaps, we don’t need the Tower of Babel, just a lowly stable for Jesus to be born. And if he speaks in all the languages the world has ever known, then so be it! Jewish, Muslim, straight or gay. Thank you! Thank you for helping me give birth!