Peace Be With You: Writing Against Violence
A Frodo's Notebook Staff Editorial
by Julia Shields - Poetry Editor

I've spent a lot of time recently thinking and talking with people in my life about violence and war. These forces may not be much more prevalent in the world today than they have been in the past, but they have become more visible and tangible to me in these past months and years, and I have been faced with the fearsome task of reckoning with the very real presence of violence around me. I'm sharing this because I believe that the kind of writing that Frodo's Notebook seeks to foster can play a crucial role in this reckoning.

Some neighborhoods, cities, and countries are more shattered than others by the embodiment of fear and hatred and misunderstanding. Some people are more vulnerable to the pain and destruction of violence because of where they were born or their religious beliefs or ethnicity. But in any part of the world it is possible - perhaps inevitable - that we will find people whose lives have been torn apart by war, abuse, rape, oppressive poverty, and other forms of complete disregard for human life and dignity. Everywhere I look, I see a reason to cry out for peace and justice. But how, in the face of the violent reality before me, do I continue to believe in these broad ideals of human harmony and right relationships?

The writer plays a vital role in this process of seeking out a real, believable kind of peace. There are two particular aspects of writing that can be found in both poetry and prose, fiction and nonfiction, that I find especially important here. The first is the task of describing reality as it is. Stories, essays, and poetry about personal encounters with violence tell us the truth about real life. It is only through this kind of truth-telling that violence is named for what it is, and exposed in all of its fruitlessness and absolute inability to bring forth good. Personal narratives have the power to evoke compassion which must be the foundation for the kind of communication and understanding that are the building blocks of peace. At its best, this compassion can be extended not only to those like ourselves, but also to those who we count as our enemies. In the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.:

Here is the true meaning and value of compassion and nonviolence, when it helps us to see the enemy's point of view, to hear his questions, to know his assessment of ourselves. For from his view we may indeed see the basic weaknesses of our own condition, and if we are mature, we may learn and grow and profit from the wisdom of the brothers who are called the opposition. (1)

Telling the truth about violence also affirms human dignity in the face of fear and pain. I think particularly now of Theresa Staruch's poem that we've published in this issue. She reminds us that, in spite of the devastation of being horribly violated, it is still possible for a victim to hold onto her dignity and strength. In the face of violence she is able to affirm: I descend from Irish Chieftains/ Recite Shakespeare/ Love Vivaldi. She extends hope to those who have experienced similar acts of violence by sharing her story and reminding them they are not alone, and she gives anyone seeking peace the hope that violence does not have the power to ultimately destroy the human spirit.

The second task of writing for peace is that of the imagination - writing about life as it could be. Active peacemaking - counteractive nonviolence - necessarily begins with believing in the possibility of peace, which sometimes seems all but impossible. It is painfully easy to believe in violence because we can see it with our eyes - its story is before us. What we need is a story, or a set of stories, that tell of an alternative to the way things are. When a writer can imagine an alternate set of possibilities, a reality where peace is a true and powerful presence, this kind of reality can then be seen as a true, valid option for the world's future. Peace must be imagined before it can be enacted. In her book Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi writes about fiction and imagination as agents of hope and change in situations of oppression and fear. When discussing how people respond to evil, she writes:

How does the soul survive? is the essential question. And the response is: through love and imagination. Stalin emptied Russia of its soul by pouring on the old death. Mandelstam and Sinyavsky restored that soul by reciting poetry to fellow convicts and by writing about it in their journals. Perhaps to remain a poet in such circumstances, Bellow wrote, is also to reach the heart of politics. The human feelings, human experiences, the human form and face, recover their proper place - the foreground.

I believe in peace, but not the kind that floats down on a cloud and blankets the world with happiness. Peace must be worked out and struggled for in a world of violence and hurt. Writing against violence may not usher in world peace, but it does have the real power to clear a little more room for peace in our lives, and I urge our writers to continue in this good work.

(1) Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence, Address to the Clergy and Laity Concerned about Vietnam, Riverside Church, New York City April 4, 1967

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