She wanted counsel and council on 11-11 at 11 am. I was ill but kept the appointment because we had set that time deliberately, though not revealing why. Reflecting on her life and the effects of war, she still suffered, she said, because her heart had been thrown on the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces by a man who couldn’t love her and couldn’t let her go.

I had just read a commentary on Veteran’s Day from the poet, Raphael Jesus Gonzalez: While WWI was officially over on June 28, 1919, it had ended in reality on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, 1918.

Veteran’s Day is Remembrance Day in Canada. Her lover had been in Vietnam and had been so wounded in the war he couldn’t function in relationship. “It was war, not the man, who wounded you,” I said.

Our conversation allowed for the understanding that she is a victim of war. Accordingly, she recognized, she was being called to heal what had injured her so. She was to pick up the broken pieces and reconfigure them. Healing is like a kaleidoscope, I said, the fragments reconfigure and then, viewed in the light, reveal a new beauty in relationship to each other.

The anguished and lonely women keep saying, “The men are so wounded.” It sounds like compassion, but it is also often complaint, sometimes condemnation. We cannot continue to make the other gender the enemy or censure the person for what he (or she) has suffered. If we do, we are committed to having an enemy, and that is the foundation of war.

In my play, Milk Fever, the handyman confronts the landowner: “Who do you get to do your killing for you, Lady?”

The issue of war and healing has been with me for years. Tree, the journal I kept when I had breast cancer, was published in 1978 with The Woman Who Slept With Men to Take the War Out of Them.”

In Tree, I wrote: “To return to health, I had to scrutinize my life, root out the destructive elements, be surgeon and seer to my own psyche, make the necessary changes which the life demanded. I had to see the disease as metaphor, interpret it and act accordingly.”

The disease is the disease and is a metaphor. The war is war and is an on-going disease.

“Collateral damage” from every war is universal. The phrase “collateral damage” is an abomination. It is another horrific act of war against each person’s identity and humanity.

If the woman seeking counsel is still carrying the wound, thirty-five years later, imagine the man who went to war, did what no human should be asked to witness or enact. Or imagine the fate of his victims who may not have been lucky enough to die after what they experienced or saw. Just the thought of the weaponry we have created, not what is unleashed through their use, but just the idea, their intent, is enough to destroy a mind and leave it unfit for life in community.

At the beginning of WWII we were horrified by Guernica, aerial bombing, attacks on civilian populations by the end we were asked to accommodate to the Camps and the Bomb. During the Vietnam war we accommodated further to Agent Orange and other atrocities. In the last years, we accommodate to genocide, DU, water boarding, torture, the violation of the Geneva Convention and drones. This is not normal behavior – if one can say – even for war. We are maddened creatures.

Roberto Bolaño’s brilliant novel, 2666, details the cause and continuity of the great world trauma that began in 1914. Every weapon we have invented is a betrayal of our souls. The ratios of those who have been damaged by war, directly or indirectly, are out of proportion to the healthy and vital minds that remain, if any, unscathed.

Add to this the pre-natal and post-natal damage we inflict that comes not from weaponry but also perhaps from the electromagnetic and chemically toxic fields we invent and inhabit, that increasingly emerges in so many tragic ways including autism, “impaired social interaction and communication,” or as one site describes it, these children “lack empathy.”

A dramatic rise in autism occurring at a time when our culture becomes increasingly impaired in social interactions and increasingly lacks empathy and compassion

There is more to our suffering and our children’s suffering. Every child that watches murder on television, or plays violent video games, becomes a victim of PTSD. Every such child is recruited, while watching, into being a child soldier. As adults, we are increasingly entertained by murder.

Elephants, like dolphins, among the kindest, most cooperative, compassionate of living beings, but who have been the victims of culls, who have witnessed their people killed, who have been chased by helicopters, as wolves and people are now being chased so, turn rogue, go against their innately kind nature, their profound instinctual and thoughtful concern for the social fabric of life; they become aggressive, commit acts of rape and violence against each other and other species.

So now, there are also the animals, the vast cauldron of pain they suffer, the distortion of their nature by our activities. Every animal on this planet is a victim of our madness.

Afterwards, becoming wounded, one can be completely unable to function on behalf of a sane and caring society but without knowing the harm that has been done to oneself, and without realizing one has become a perpetrator.

As we try to identify causes and lay blame, let us imagine that every criticism reveals an area or person that needs healing. Like or dislike, there is a great wound, as great as the wound to the EarthSeaMother in the Gulf. We each carry it. It has gone viral, and the wound wounds everyone. Shall we not, each of us, take on the task of healing?

There is no one to blame. We are not born with thoughts of inventing ways to destroy people, animals, the earth. All Our Relations is an indigenous understanding that is innate to every newborn and then, as the indigenous people suffer everywhere, it has been and is being conquered.

If we could only listen to the children before they can speak, we would know what a pure soul is and live accordingly

If WWI is one of the great unhealed planetary wounds, and before it, five hundred years of Conquest and Inquisition and, before that, Rome – and then if we consider the explosive consequences of everything after WWI – we have a great deal of healing to do and extend to each other and our ancestors, in a very short time, or the entire planet will perish very soon.

My husband and I marvel at the differences between us, our different values and assumptions, that arise because I was born into a worldview of hope as I was born in the U.S, before WWII and the Camps and he was born in the U.S. after the Bomb. My family found safety and sanity, they thought, in the U.S. After WWII, they thought insanity was mostly elsewhere. My husband grew up in New Mexico knowing there isn’t any safety or sanity here. Still, he writes about compassion and tries to teach it to those who are concerned as we are. Michael Ortiz Hill’s latest book is Conspiracy of Kindness: The Craft of Compassion at the Bedside of the Ill.

Sometimes I think PTSD results not only from being forced to commit the unthinkable, but from burying fleeting moments of insight and compassion that precede their acts of horror. Healing, then, would also consist of re-viewing one’s instinctual recoil from inflicting pain and cruelty, from bearing one’s innate kindness.

I didn’t expect to write this, but the other night, I saw Tsotsi, written by Athol Fugard. The young man’s nickname or war name,” Thug”, came from his desperation, and that desperation, from his father’s desperation. Cruelty is not an innate condition. It is a curse upon the person who suffers it, the perpetrator and then the victim. It is contagious and is passed down. A terrible legacy. If too few remember, experience and adamantly hold kind and compassionate ways of being, if too few face their own complicity and heal themselves, cruelty will overwhelm us.

“Decency? Do you know what decency means?” one of the gang members asks after an entirely heartless murder was committed.

Yesterday, I read two sentences in Peter Matthiessen’s, In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, (page 6) that will haunt me forever, even though I spent years studying the Holocaust day and night, and went on a pilgrimage to the Death Camps of Europe, then wrote The Other Hand:
“Spotted Tail, chief of the Brule band, … had led a great raid in 1864 on Julesburg, Colorado; this raid reflected the widespread outrage among Plains Indians caused by the slaughter at Sand Creek of an unsuspecting Cheyenne camp by an armed mob of Colorado irregulars with subsequent gross sexual mutilation of men, women and children. (“Cowards and dogs!” declared Kit Carson, whose own regular soldiers known to the “Navajo as “Long Knives” had sometimes played catch with the severed breasts of young Navajo women.)

This IS the history of the Americas and the Conquest.

Maybe people have always fought, but not this way. It is not that they didn’t have such weapons, it is that they wouldn’t invent them. It is not how people are because it is not how animals are.

In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, it is said: Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.”

We are wounded. Our wounds wound. How shall we heal in order to protect others?

A general, who had committed the unspeakable, came to the Topanga Daré to be initiated as a peacebuilder. For years, we have been training as a community to receive those who want to heal from war. A basic premise is that we must know such transformation from within ourselves: We must recognize our own war wounds, how they were afflicted, and what we have done, are doing, to heal our warlike ways. We could receive the general with integrity because we acknowledged our commonality of pain and betrayal.

A veteran who had served in the first Gulf war, surrendered his own sword in the traditional way. Another woman symbolically surrendered her sword and for weeks later said she didn’t know who she is or how to respond without having a sword – “just in case.” Last week, another woman surrendered her sword, also in the traditional way, and now there are two swords on my altar.

In Liberia, the women fed up with war, sat and danced in protest in the streets, in grueling sun and pouring rain, and also took the weapons from their sons, brothers, uncles, fathers. And so the civil war ended.

A woman who came to Topanga last night, for a Music Daré, our “indigenous” healing form, had fled the war in Somalia as a child. She also set this date, 11/11 for her healing. Recently, she gathered and the money and resources to return to her country on her own. She put on a burqa and traveled alone for 4 months and 4 days. Often she couldn’t speak, afraid that an English word would escape her mouth and reveal her identity. If so, she might be raped, kidnapped and held for ransom. “So many women are willing to marry and have children at eleven or twelve to escape being raped. Still life goes on. Life goes on.”

She stayed for a while in the village of the tribe that had killed her father and was treated with kindness. What healing we were able to offer her was through our recognition that she is, herself, a profound healer of war.

I am writing this at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Who will you devote yourself to healing today? As we say in Daré, “Wash your dish and someone else’s.”

Heal yourself and give equal time to offering healing to others. If everyone on the planet would take responsibility for healing oneself and one other person of war ….

14 responses to “11/11 ELEVENTH HOUR REFLECTIONS

  1. Lynne Jaffe November 12, 2010 at 8:05 pm

    Oh dear Deena… Stunning. No one spins the tale of humanity (and inhumanity) with the thread count that you offer us. Speech that too few will hear though which would resonate with so many. If only you could become a guest columnist in the Huffington Post or some such portal…. hmmm…..
    Blessing your heart ever. Lynne

  2. Ray Hardy November 13, 2010 at 2:57 am

    Thank you so much for this, Deena. I can’t begin to explain how timely and helpful this is. I hope one day soon I can find the words to coherently and succinctly speak to this very issue. Right now there are too many words and the tears make it difficult to see what I’d be typing anyway. Until now, with Good Hearts like yourself, I had been unable to find two-leggeds with ears as big and as receptive as the deer’s. Thank God for them and now, you.
    Much Love,

  3. leahtaylor November 13, 2010 at 3:29 am

    my tears rush down my face to heal the wounds still inside me, to protect my boys from becoming soldiers in this lifetime and know your words will stay with me, to bring healing to others.

  4. laura November 13, 2010 at 3:42 am

    Deena, i feel as if I have stopped for a moment at the well and had a drink of clear water. I am so grateful that your words arise to nurture at the right moment. My faith comes from knowing that the movement of a butterly wing instigates the start of a tempest on the other side of the world. Your words are the dance that can bring down an empty commitment to war. Let’s all begin!
    I am in a conference on Literature and Medicine giving workshops. In between there are speakers, theater presentations, and gatherings. Everyone here works with veterans, the dying or in some form of therapy. At the last minute, yesterday, listening to a panel and audience discussion following The Theater of War performed by actors and veterans (combining stories from Sophocles and contemporary people returning from wars), I changed the focus of my workshop. the ensuing discussion had been about honor vs. betrayal, suicide and shame. The people who came to sit with me themselves seemed battered and exhausted. The simple idea of “healing oneself from war within” was never spoken on the panel. It seemed accepted that wars will always go on in their undaunting increase in horror and misery. Speakers were rivetting because they were rivetted by their tragedies. I felt no one had given them permission to not figure it out or have another enemy – (the government that refused to care for a husband assuming he was on his way to death and useless, or the Ajax whose only social option was suicide). Where was immediate relief in the presentation .. the moisture of compassion for a moment that is the fertility of transformation. Where was the pause and looking behind the curtain. they wanted another tool, another option to help others heal when they sat in our circle. We paused. we breathed. we looked around. we bowed to each other. I told stories about kindness. We opened the passage into inherent presence and goodness. They healed themselves in the moment. People wept. Now reading your offering – a conversation – I feel deeply refreshed by the companionship. and the courageous reminder that you offer. thank you. thank you. thank you. I am sending this to my son Ishmael!

  5. Maypop November 13, 2010 at 6:11 am

    Deena…thank you so much for writing this with such brilliance and unwavering commitment to healing work. This blog entry helped me make sense of dreams I have been having around my ancestry/family and war/wounds. Now that I have read about your book ‘Tree’ — I have been able to discover more clues into a dynamic inside me that is releasing, surfacing and open for healing. …especially the essay on “The Woman Who Slept with with Men to Take the War out of Them…” Things are slowly coming together and I now can realize what I am facing inside myself…and see it in others too. Thank you for your work…

  6. Deena Metzger November 16, 2010 at 12:08 pm

    From Men in War, 1918
    Lt. Andreas Latzko

    “You want to know what ws the most awful thing? The disillusionment was the most awful thing — the going off. The war wasn’t. The war is what it has to be. Did it surprise you to find out that war is horrible? The only surprising thing was the going off. To find out that the women are horrible — that was the only surprising thing. That they can smile and throw roses, that they can give up their men, their children …. That was the surprise! That they sent us — sent us! … No general could have made us go if the women hadn’t allowed us to be stacked on the trains. If they had screamed that they would never look at us again if we turned into murderers.”

    An epigraph toThe Woman Who Slept With Men To Take the War Our of Them, in my book, Tree: Essays and Pieces, North Atlantic Books.

  7. Ray Hardy November 16, 2010 at 2:11 pm

    “You want to know what was the most awful thing?”
    To be sent, against my will (“either that or prison”), to fight in a God-Awful war, in a country I had never heard of, against a people with whom I had no quarrel, for the People of The United States, only to return to be, literally, spit upon by members of those very People of The United States and to face closed ears for forty years. I left a hero and returned a murderer. And who, pray tell, makes that go away?
    Ray Hardy USMC – VietNam ’68-’69

  8. Daniel Millard January 7, 2011 at 5:31 am

    Deena, I was not sure that I could get thru all of this… It is SO HEAVY. But you came thru in the end. You give us true HOPE and something concrete that we can each do! Otherwise, what is the point of going on. I NEVER WANT TO FORGET THIS.
    This should be sent around the world!

  9. Deena Metzger January 7, 2011 at 10:56 am

    Twenty-five years ago, in a moment of global crises, I wrote a piece “Transmission Letter” (and then followed with a few others ) which did go around the world, passed from hand to hand, computer to computer, and opened the doors of possibility. That first transmission letter (see my website) was sent, originally, to 36 people – because in Jewish mysticism, 36 is the number of the lamed vov – the invisible but holy ones who sustain the world through their simple but profoundly ethical and compassionate lives. These 36 must have passed the Transmission Letter on because I heard from people across the globe who had received it and for whom it mattered. On this Christmas Eve 2010, I met someone who remembered receiving the letter. So feel welcome to send this to whomever you think should receive it and let them pass it on so that we each heal ourselves and one other … this is what it takes.

  10. Deena Metzger January 7, 2011 at 5:00 pm

    A later thought Daniel, related to your note: Are we willing to heal means are we willing to change sufficiently so that our lives are consistent with the Spirit that will flow into them? Are we willing to disentangle and shift sufficiently to become the exact vessel for healing self and the times? To live in ways that heal the times? To be healing presences for the world?

  11. Daniel Millard January 7, 2011 at 8:28 pm

    In short, my answer is YES! YES! YES I am willing… I am so thankful to Vincent Reynolds for sharing your work with me

  12. Laura January 8, 2011 at 4:05 am

    Dear Deena, the sudden invisible war that has millions of birds falling out of the sky and thousands of fish washing up dead all over the world. How to bear witness. How to respond. Years ago I fell in love with a Russain fairytale that i retold. But it was not until Ishmael(Beah, exchild soldier from sierra leone, became my son that the opening words of the story truly spoke to me: It begins, “There was once a soldier returning home from battle who got lost in a forest” Its’ lengthy journey revealed a symbolic (therefore deeply penetrating) template for the depth of healing that has to take place to repair from within. Your writing, as always, gives me courage and urgency for compassionate action. With the Buddhist practice of tonglen, we take in the suffering of others and from the inherent ceaseless well of fundamental untarnishable goodness we project out sanity, joy, well being, healing and kindness. There is a daily practice to literally wish everyone, including our enemies.happiness. And to contemplate that unless everyone is relieved of unnecessary suffering there can be no peace in the world since we are interconnected. I am so grateful that you always offer what is needed into the world fearlessly.

  13. Deena Metzger January 8, 2011 at 11:33 am

    Dearest Laura: I am taking the liberty of copying your note and posting it on my profile page on Facebook where I have been attending, as you say, “the birds falling out of the sky and the fish washing up dead all over the world.” I have been journeying to the Elephant Ambassador with this grief and posting his responses there. Yesterday, I added his responses to a piece about my real and spirit connections with elephants. Even as I write that I will post this to my page, I remember that I was waiting for a sign to post the piece here and your answer is the sign. Bless you, so, Laura. We MUST meet and sit in soul council together.

  14. Deena Metzger January 8, 2011 at 11:48 am

    Dear Laura: Another realization. The story you started about the soldier returning home from battle and getting lost in a forest, reminds me of a story I begin to tell in the blog I posted here, HEALING ACCORDING TO THE ORIGINAL VISION OF THE LAND. At a ReVisioning Medicine Council, a Vietnam war veteran volunteered to be the subject for “Indigenous Grand Rounds” where the community of medical people and medicine people together investigate the story the illness is telling. The veteran, of Mohawk descent, spoke of bringing supplies up river and seeing the jungle defoliated by agent orange — from which he is now suffering. He and the trees. Somehow we are being taken into another story that weaves your story, Ismael Beah, the child soldiers and ex-combatants I know from Liberia, this veteran’s story, the current story of the birds and the fishes, into another story. (A Vietnam vet whom I have not yet met is coming to Daré tomorrow. A writer, of Cherokee descent, he is on 50% PTSD disability. ( I am very concerned about the level of PTSD I am coming across in indigenous people. How understandable this is. The wars violates their soul agreements. The story we are in is revealing the grave illness we are in, and, perhaps, healing paths on behalf of the earth and then on behalf of human suffering. A reversal of priorities that comes to me as I write to you.

    I will post a more extensive discussion of that ReVisioning Medicine meeting shortly.

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