Shooting Elephants

In a conversation with my friend about colonialization and white people in Africa (of which we are two), I referenced a great essay by George Orwell about shooting an elephant, which I promptly re-read.

It's a fascinating read, so I decided to share it here.

Orwell is a police officer in Burma who is forced, by the color of his skin, to shoot an elephant. He didn't want to do it - they forced him - but he had to. He then shot it repeatedly - even calling for a second gun - but the damned thing wouldn’t die (It eventually did though).

It all started very innocently...

One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism--the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it?

But then...

At that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward,irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man's dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd--seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the "natives," and so in every crisis he has got to do what the "natives" expect of him. He wears a mask, and

his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing--no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at

me. And my whole life, every white man's life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.

But I did not want to shoot the elephant.

And then it just gets ugly...

The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.

There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats....

When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick--one never does when a shot goes home--but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frighfful impact of the bullet had

paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time--it might have been five seconds, I dare say--he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot.

After that, it gets really ugly. You should really check out the whole essay. It's here. "Shooting an Elephant" is what it's called.

For more odd thoughts, my full blog is andrewgurwitz.com.

Hopefully, I'll be back in this space pretty soon though.

Wax Mistakes

I, too, will start by posting something I'd previously composed. The following was my introduction to the Neilah, or closing, service of Yom Kippur this past year:

Believe it or not, after five years of leading the same service, you learn a thing or two. You should probably ask everyone to rise BEFORE you remove the Torah from the ark. The neilah service just barely crawls by because all anybody can think about is the food that’s waiting just outside. And most importantly, don’t hold a dripping candle over your prayer book.

Now, this last bit of wisdom may seem a bit silly – why would you hold a candle over a prayer book? Well, I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you who. And the answer is me, five years ago.

During my first time leading Yom Kippur services, I held the Havdallah candle over my prayer book…it dripped and left this wax mark at the bottom of my machzor. My wax mistake…burning hot initially, it cooled and hardened over time, and eventually was forgotten from year to year, but never has its stain left my page. Never, during this time of t’shuva, of turning inward, have I escaped its reality.

At the close of our closing service this evening, we will hold Havdalah, a ceremony that symbolically distinguishes the transition from chag to everyday, from Yom Kippur to the new year, from the holy to the mundane. And as we leave that holy space, as we turn our minds away from t’shuvah, from repentance, from fasting, and we return to the normalcy of our busy, hectic lives, we leave ourselves desensitized, unguarded, and open to hot wax dripping upon our lives. These marks may not stain your life for weeks or months to come. Or, for those of you who are like me, these marks may stain your life the second Havdalah is over. You might not even make it out the door before another wax stain drips onto the book of your life.

This year, for the first time, I realized I could just peel off the stain…that wax scabs are not permanent stains, that long after the damage is done they can be harmlessly thrown aside. But I do not want to remove this wax reminder from my prayer book. It is beautiful. There is a swirl of dark, murky colors standing out from the purity of the stock white page. There is a mistake in time now forever marked by this wax seal…a mistake made not during the holiest of holy days, but during Havdalah…during separation…during life.

There will inevitably come a time when darkness engulfs your life. And in that time, you will need to light a candle. And this candle will burn and it will melt, and during this process, it is all too likely that this candle will drip hot wax upon you. And this wax will burn at the touch. And then it will cool. And it will harden. And it will even peel off. And if, for some reason, you choose not to remove it, to let it linger, and then to forget about it, and to push it aside and bury it away…don't worry. It will be waiting for you next Yom Kippur.

It Is All There

A poem I wrote over the summer while working on the Colorado River...

It Is All There

Thinking is futile,

It makes Him laugh.

The ego grows unbounded;

A humbled spirit lies dormant.

Where can it be found?

Layer upon layer is all they can see,

Fear drives them apart.

Forever visible, waiting for seizure, 

Available to all eyes,

I yearn for the day we wake into bliss.

Beams of light moving, rushing, whirring about;

Oh, the potential for collision.

What will be constructed?

What will be destroyed?

Ignorant fools think they are victims of helplessness.

How else can He reveal it?

'Twas just but a wanderer in your dream,

Captured in spaceless memory.

A shockwave felt throughout broke down the walls,

With what now can you muddle in time?

It is all there...It is all there.

Travel Insights

This is a passage from The Pilgrimage, written by Paulo Coelho.  I found it to be rather insightful into the benefits of traveling.  Many of you are aware that I will be traveling to India soon to attend a conference put on by United Religions Initiative.  It is an NGO dedicated to ending violence done in the Name of God.  I am fortunate enough to have the freedom and capability to travel a bit before and after the conference...

"When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth.  You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys you don't understand the language the people speak.  So you are like a child just out of the womb.  You begin to attach much more importance to the things around you because your survival depends on them.  You begin to be more accessible to others because they may be able to help you in difficult situations.  And you accept any small favor from the Gods with great delight, as if it were an episode you could remember for the rest of your life." 

...

"At the same time, since all things are new, you see only the beauty in them, and you feel happy to be alive.  That's why a religious pilgrimage has always been one of the most objective ways of achieving insight.  The word pecadillo, which means "a small sin," comes from pecus, which means "defective foot," a foot that is incapable of walking a road.  The way to correct the pecadillo is always to walk forward, adapting oneself to new situations and receiving in return all of the thousands of blessings that life generously offers to those who seek them."

...

"I am very glad to be here...because the work I did not finish is not important and the work I will be able to do after I get back will be so much better."

--Petrus (Paulo Coelho's guide on the Road to Santiago)

Introduction

Hey Y'all

Welcome to a space devoted to the power of collective wisdom.   Some of you were around when I first conceived of this idea (narcissistically thinking it to be an original), and some of you are being introduced for the first time now.  But in a nutshell, here's the gist:

Each and every one of you has had a positive impact on my life by offering tidbits of wisdom in a variety of ways.  Would you be interested in spreading that wisdom throughout a larger group of people?  Can you think of others that would contribute to a collective body of knowledge?

The idea is to have people contribute pieces to this group that address questions of peace, spirituality, change, love, religion...the time-space continuum (well, maybe).  When someone submits and original post, it would be awesome for others to respond.  If you don't have anything to say, maybe you'll feel compelled to post something totally different.  You all have so much to offer and it is amazing to think of the potential.  

After many conversations about how this will work, what its focus should be, who will contribute, or what its purpose is, I still don't have any clear answers for you.  However, because this will be OUR project, the result will only be the product of effort put forth by each of us.  It should be interesting to see how it develops...please feel free to post ideas.  At a minimum, those of us who find this kinda thing to be valuable can use www.modernosity.blogspot.com as a space for discourse.  

To get things started, I will be posting two unrelated pieces.

Love and peace to you all, 

Zach (Inside Out) Levine