Fatalistic ideals

At 12:58, I gather my thoughts, sat down. Its that time of the night, That half an hour just after reaching home from work, before I sleep, sometimes it stretches to an hour, where I allow myself a degree of freedom. To read this or that, and to do this or that, then to bed.

The news today reported that six teenagers entered into a pact with a Taoist medium to kill themselves. The objective is novel – to save the world through their sacrifice.

Two jumped from the ninth floor, and died. The others did not.

Their thought process, I imagine, must have been similar to that running through the minds of the suicide bombing of the Islamic terrorists of late, except of course, to their credit, they did not physically harm others.

Their fatalism, because of its unthreatening and naïve nature, appears obtuse here. I feel sympathetic, but at once, tempted almost to be cruel

The ability of humans to convince others to abandon their instinct to survive for the greater good fascinates and horrifies me, and arouses in me at once repulsion and admiration.

And as a contrast against the terrorists (not those boys), the great grandson of Darwin (and you may at once note how the breath of history may make mockery of all of us and our theories), Rubert John Conford – communist, poet, hero, intellectual, good looking (and yes, thats a real picture of him), had the whole world in front of him – if he wanted it, died for his political beliefs against fascism, capitalist exploitation and the heartlessness of the world.

And yes, here is his poem (which you no doubt have read already and how the above rambling relates to this blog):

A Letter from Aragon


This is a quiet sector of a quiet front.

We buried Ruiz in a new pine coffin,
But the shroud was too small and his washed feet stuck out.
The stink of his corpse came through the clean pine boards
And some of the bearers wrapped handkerchiefs round their faces.
Death was not dignified.
We hacked a ragged grave in the unfriendly earth
And fired a ragged volley over the grave.

You could tell from our listlessness, no one much missed him.

This is a quiet sector of a quiet front.
There is no poison gas and no H. E.

But when they shelled the other end of the village
And the streets were choked with dust
Women came screaming out of the crumbling houses,
Clutched under one arm the naked rump of an infant.
I thought: how ugly fear is.

This is a quiet sector of a quiet front.
Our nerves are steady; we all sleep soundly.

In the clean hospital bed, my eyes were so heavy
Sleep easily blotted out one ugly picture,
A wounded militiaman moaning on a stretcher,
Now out of danger, but still crying for water,
Strong against death, but unprepared for such pain.

This on a quiet front.

But when I shook hands to leave, an Anarchist worker
Said: 'Tell the workers of England
This was a war not of our own making
We did not seek it.
But if ever the Fascists again rule Barcelona
It will be as a heap of ruins with us workers beneath it.'