AS THE knees reluctantly pump after a hiatus, I recall a voice in my head from that morning's CNN. It is the voice of Arafat's mother-in-law screaming from a phone in Ramallah about the Israeli tanks, the gunfire, surrounding the fortress where her son-in-law is under siege. This morning we get news of a suicide bomb(er) which has gone off in the port city of Haifa, killing14 in a restaurant. I have been to Haifa. Twice--in '71 and '86. I have friends in Haifa. And though I have not been to Ramallah and have no friends in that city, I come from them all and the City of Certitude, the City of Love embraces us all. I am a global citizen and all these struggles are mine. A young Jewish American has managed to infiltrate the area outside Arafat's place of confinement. Three hours pass, and he is allowed in, speaks to Arafat, then we see his young face as a CNN talking head interview.

I don't care that he is a Jew, albeit non-practicing. I don't care that he is American. And I care less that he's macho showboating. I care that he is young and speaking for his generation. Right there. In front of us. Like watching O.J. barreling down the highway from aerial footage by day, or Rodney King being beaten by 21 police officers at night, to the daily natural disasters commercialized on the Weather Channel. Via satellite broadcast we listen now to this young face, but we will forget him by the next media sound byte. We will go back to our killing and our tit-for-tat, and the masculinization of war. That it is holy season for all seems to matter little to anyone. Just as good as any day to kill, eh? Our children in the Middle East are killing themselves. 'What a shame' we think. But we are not ashamed. A sense of true shame would prevent such a cavalier death-wish of our species. The truth is, we like it.

Hanan Ashwari, a member of the Palestinian Parliament is being interviewed later in the broadcast. This is an intelligent woman, a diplomat. Why ask her 'why?' She revisits the memory of the 16-year-old Palestinian girl who, a week before, herself became a suicide bomber. About the girl, in love and engaged, Ashwari says, 'why would such a beautiful young girl choose to kill herself?'

How many ways can we all say or spell the words desperate to one another? All this palaver is now a huge discordant symphony in my head. My head is not happy and my knees are going to "desperation city," too. They are cross with me, and I am cross with the world. I am entitled. I am 52 in three days.

A bleak Boston Public Garden awaits, sullen, dismal, flowerless, duck-less, swan-less, and damp. I walk the bike through, uninspired. The pond has been drained for the spring season, revealing the dark soil, a metaphor for how we all look right now underneath our masks of human-ness. The birds are cavalier because the feeders are few, the bulbs planted below the earth. Except for one bird locked in a stare-duel with two blonde Yorkshires barking their pitiful lungs out. The bird stands his ground, daring the leashed set. Go ahead, he thinks. Charge me, you wingless fools. The truth is, I fly, you can't. Scram.

Later, I have been commandeered by decaf, my paper, my pastry. Per custom, I sink down onto the wooden bench, innocent of the fact that a giant splinter is aimed at my thigh. It stabs, and the sip of decaf misses my mouth, dribbles down my chin, and that mouth-watering apple typhoon falls to the ground. Some of you would've picked it up and eaten it. And I know who you are. Normally, the chipmunk would have swiped it before it hit the ground, the rascal. 'Well fine' I think. If I can't have that pastry, no living creature will. But there is a gloom in the gardens this day. No chipmunks. The few birds which inhabit, inhabit the trees, magnolias, budding but barren.

Another voice whispers in my head. I listen. I am now breaking off bits of my apple typhoon and throwing it out to a trio of birds on the ground. A full riot of flying creatures suddenly appears, flapping in delight at the feast. We bring this world into balance with grace, with our own actions, large and small. Listen to the children. They are talking to us.

© 2001 Robin M. Chandler

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