My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Driving Peace From the Streets
How did they handle the riot? They surrounded it. They chased it. They gassed it and beat it, until finally it gave up and seemed to go away. But only the external violence was stopped, and then just for now. On both sides hatred increased, enmity festered, the gap widened as understanding became less possible. Peace was driven from the street. Why instead couldn't they listen? It may have been a different voice in a new wilderness. Why didn't they ask why it had happened, instead of how?
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