When Laughter Can No Longer Be Silenced
Today, I joined more than 100 priests from around the worldwho are part of the“Priests Against Genocide” networktopray for peace and justice and to raise awareness of the need to resolve the conflict in Palestine with dialogue and diplomacy.Some of the priests had made a pilgrimage to personally experience the realities of life in the Holy Land. They encouraged us to "come and see." We gathered in the Divine Mercy church for a prayer service and then marched outside carrying a shroud upon which we hadwritten the names of the more than 300Palestinian and Lebanese childrenwho had been killed after the ceasefire. Stepping outside of the comfort of the church, I joined in singing songs of peace and asking God to be my strength to have the courage to live without fear.
Yet, during the march, I declined an invitation to be interviewed. Afterwards, I was asked if I would be willing to write a reflection of my experience of the day. Despite my prayer to be free offears of being misunderstood, I found myself reluctant. As one of myformerhistory professorsoncetold me, history is not my forte.I'm hesitant to meddle into politics becauseI’m woefully ignorant of much of the context that leads to longstanding conflicts.
During the morning presentations, there was a video that spoke about how uncomfortable it is to talk about dead children. It is most unpleasant to speak about dead children. Many prefer that we talk about anything other than dead children. And yet, we were gathered to give voice to the hundreds of childrenwhohadbeen killed.As stories were shared, one particular story drew me into remembering myown sister,Ginger (whom I affectionately called ‘Honeybun’). She died when she was six years old of a rare disease that was never diagnosed. Because of her illness,Honeybun never developed the ability to speak. She could laugh when she was happy and would cry when she was sad. One of the things that made her happy was when I would do impromptu puppet shows for her by putting a pair of socks over my hands. Ideeply enjoyed making her laugh.
As I marched and prayed, I carried a wooden heart made from the trees in the Holy Land. Carrying the heart reminded me of Honeybun’s Raggedy Ann doll. One detail etched itself into my young mind. On the doll was a heart with the words "I love you". I longedto showmy sister how much I loved her. As I walked, sheborewitness toher little brother, who after 50 years of living, continues tocarry her name and memories with him.Such memories continue to fill my heartwith immense tenderness and love.
Speaking of dead children is uncomfortable. Yet it can also be healing. As I listened to the stories shared that day, I found myself returning to memories I may at times shy away from remembering. Iremember finding my sister’slifeless body in bed one Saturday morning. Ihad cometo carry her out with me to watch cartoons.As I listened tothe story of Hind Rajab, a 5-year-old girl who had been trapped inside a car attacked by Israeli forces,the memory of a little boy reaching out to touch his sister came back. The young girlhadmanaged to call the Red Crescent for help but hours later she and the paramedics who had come toassisther were all found dead. The chilling story reminded me of the shocking cold that struck my hand as I gently touched my sister’s arm in a futile attempt to wake her up.
Deep within me, I am uncomfortable talking about dead children. I am uncomfortable with the suffering being inflicted upon so many people, especially upon the children. And yet,while marching,I find myself continuing to sing and ask for the grace to be moved beyond my discomfort and fears. Eachchild whosenamewas writtenon the shroudhad their laughter silenced by violence. The world will never be able to hear the joyful sounds of their songs.Fr.Greg Boyle, the Jesuit who has ministered to gang members in Los Angeles,wrote a book titled "Tattoos of the Heart". Greg Boyle writes about "tattoos of the heart," the marks that relationships leave upon us. Today, the names of these children have been written upon my own heart.
Love moves me to risk criticism and misunderstanding by speaking about the children whose lives have been cut short by violence. I proudly walk with my brother priests, accompanied by several religious sisters and friendswho joined me in marching,praying, and carrying the names of these children in our hearts. I hope that our prayers will bring about a change of heart that will be able to end the violence that deprives us of the ability to hear the laughter that has been stolen from us. I wonder, if we really want to stop talking about dead children,thenwe ought to considertaking action to disarm and stop killing children and theirloved ones. In the hope of preventing the silencing of these children’s laughter, we carried their names and stood in frontof one of the leading arms manufacturers in Europe.Weapons do not bring peace.
Participating in the march helped me to rediscover myself as a little boy. Theboy whostandsathis sister’s bedside andtriesto wakeherup.The boy who longs tosee her smile andtohear her laugh. This little boy continues to mourn. Yet he alsolongs for a world filled with laughter. Prayer did not remove my discomfort.Iam still reluctant to share.Yet the support of so many helped me to rediscover the power of a child’s laugh that cannot be silenced by violence. Isee my sister smiling.As I choosenot to be silent, Ihearthe silence disappear and can onceagainhearmy sisterlaugh. Her name, her story, and her incredible impact upon melive in my heart. I pray that the children whose names we carriedmayjoyfullyjoinwithmy sisterin havingtheir names and stories remembered. Such laughteris one of the most effective waysof bringingpeace into our hearts and into the world.
Cover image credits: He drawing is inspired by a real image of a Palestinian mother mourning her deceased son, Mohammed Zakaria. Credit: Priests Against Genocide
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