Yesterday
was the mid-year solstice — the longest day in the sun’s journey across northern
hemisphere; the shortest, south of the equator. Here in Bishkek, green still
creeps up the slopes of the closest mountains, while snow recedes to the
tallest peaks, which gleam, in frozen splendor, all through the sunlit days and
never-quite-dark nights. Now, the first day across the border of the
astrological marker of the season, the sun continues down the long, gentle
slide towards winter.
The
day after the solstice doesn’t feel shorter. The summer-lit, cricket-song
filled night seems no less enchanting in its fleeting embrace. The long days
and gentle evenings promise an abundance of time to attend to the necessary,
and still be able to enjoy the life we share on this planet—the local amenities
of nature, of climate, of culture, wherever we find ourselves. It seems, when
the long march of the sun brings light and warmth, plants grow prodigiously,
and food is plentiful, that we should be focused on building, on improving our
lives.
It
is tempting, in the midst of all this plenty, to be lulled into complacency, to
be distracted by the varied tempos of summer’s celebrations and repose. It is
easy to blend with the crowd, sated with the munificence of sunlit days and
weeks.
We
share the solstice, the slow, familiar orbits of our planet, the moon, sun, and
stars… the seasons, the climate, the weather. It costs us nothing to notice, to
enjoy if we are able. We seek, though, to limit access to the skies, to water,
to freedom, and, by extension, time itself. We fight over ownership of the
earth; we resort to violence, crime, war for ownership, for power, for causes,
religions, for fear, for hate. It is perhaps impossible to number the many
centuries of solstices, the many millennia, the peoples of our planet have fought,
feared, fled into corners, and across borders.
The
lengthening days of summer encourage the displaced to think they might hold
light enough to find safe harbor somewhere, before the long nights of winter
set in again. The United Nations Secretary-General observed World Refugee Day
on 20 June, noting:
“This is not
about sharing a burden. It is about sharing a global responsibility, based not
only on the broad idea of our common humanity but also on the very specific
obligations of international law. The root problems are war and hatred, not
people who flee; refugees are among the first victims of terrorism.”
But
what of those caught within the borders of unpublicized, unseen, unspoken battles
for power, for control? What happens when people, due to values of faith, of
fealty, of finance, find the summer sun eclipsed by exigencies of circumstance,
of access, of politics, of the clash between a global concept of human rights,
and a local wielding of power?
What
are the borders between coexisting, blending with a host-society, and
maintaining a sense of self? What are the boundaries between being a citizen of
or visitor to a host-nation, and a citizen of the world? Where are the
road-signs allowing safe navigation between the included and the excluded,
between the uninformed and the unimpeded, between the expansive and the
xenophobic?
Whether
a local, or a visitor, when you are hunted, targeted because of your talents,
your aspirations, your values, your associations, where do you turn? Do you
co-opt to blend, acceding, tacitly complicit, to the abrogations of rights for
a few, when the “summer” of inclusion beckons so beguilingly?
There
are no ‘home free’ spaces without contradictions, no carefree summer
playgrounds where we, as humans in a global society, may be absolved of
reinforcing oppressive structures. There are no days of summer, enticing, long,
and languorous enough to excuse the absence of truth, of trust, of ethics. We
must, in the summers of content, as in the ‘winters of discontent,’ be honest
about what we are working, walking towards.
In
the best of all possible worlds, a song is a song, not a political outcry. Musical
and artistic talent, or the glaring lack thereof, know neither affiliation, nor
national boundary per se. A game of football is not a ‘diet of worms’ of
religious or governmental focus; sports may be an avenue for healthy
competition, for the camaraderie of the field, but athletes and coaches do not
settle the affairs of state. A job is employment, food on the table, hope for
the future for those in the day-to-day grind for solvency and survival.
We
may not all share the same talents, but we share the same spaces, and the
responsibility for upholding those tenuous concepts of safety, security, and
sustainable life within them. “We,” human, animal, insect, plant, from the
smallest microbe to the largest expanse of clonal bio-organism, share this
place, this seasons, these sunlit summer days.
So
what happens, when friends are arrested ‘on suspicion,’ and dragged from the
sunlight into the darkness of imprisonment? When conditions of incarceration,
interrogation, of possible torture are hidden, when the self-assured condescension
of the included — the politicians, the entrepreneurs, the power-wielders, and
the complacent, wreaks its violence against the unseen, the unheard, the
unprotected? How can the awareness of privilege and crisis, of visibility and
dismissal, of a status quo of acceptance rather than transparency be
reconciled?
The
seasons mean little to the grinding wheels of commerce, the ceaseless turbines
of information-flow, of government. Throughout history, the practice of
throwing prisoners into dark places where life becomes one long, twilit,
season-less misery has vied for horror with the penchant for stringing
prisoners up without protection from the glare of the weathered skies, for all
to see.
The
halcyon days of summer mean little to those whose lives have been interrupted as
collateral of the clash between scions of power. It is easier to hide the
derelictions of human rights in the darkness of seclusion, apart from the eyes
and voices of family, friends, advocates, or activists. And, yet, the seasons
turn. Plants grow, compelled by the urgency of life, to produce in summer, to
withstand the winter, to prepare for spring. Theirs is a calendar grounded in
the eternities of the suns and planets.
Our
human calendar is more ephemeral. Acquiescence to the well-cloaked tyrannies of
power may be easier during the carnival-days of summer, when distractions are
plenty, and hardships are few. But their burden is no less heavy; the
impenetrability of the borders they impose between freedom and oppression no
less dark.
The
summer sun has little power to lighten circumstances such as these. And, soon
enough, we will be well along the way towards fall.
NB: Public publication in Different Truths, 25 June, 2017 (actual article written 22 June, 2017)
NB: Public publication in Different Truths, 25 June, 2017 (actual article written 22 June, 2017)