They may remark on the horror, but they will, most likely, think nothing of it at all, like a dog with somewhere else to be.
– From The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway
I may immerse myself into a narrative or a film about war, but I can always step back into the comfort of my own world. I realize how easy it is to continue going about my day. I am enveloped by an overwhelming sense of safety and ordinariness – I am laying in bed reading a novel, wrapped up in a soft blanket, away from the bodies in the streets, the destroyed buildings, the fight for survival. The lights of the classroom flick on as the credits start rolling – I am no longer in a dystopian world where citizens are oppressed under the iron fist of an authoritarian government. I am wondering what’s for lunch, what homework I have to do, tests to study for.
It’s strange.
My heartstrings may have tugged as I watched people trudge through their lives under the constant burden of fear. Yet, I would be lying if I said I could really understand what they are going through. And frankly, there is a part of myself that feels uncomfortable with fully grasping the bleak reality that many individuals face on a daily basis. It’s too heavy and disheartening. It’s why when I hear about the death and atrocities on the news, I am conflicted between empathy and a desire to slip into ignorance – after all, ignorance is bliss.
Am I desensitized to war? Should I be?
In my English class, I had the opportunity to read The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway. The text deals with the themes of war, hatred and political turmoil. I studied these texts in an academic context, examining the literary devices, the character development, and so on. However, this again is one of the barriers that distance me from truly internalizing the nature of war. That’s my motivation for writing this article. I feel like I need to come to terms about my feelings about war.
Galloway’s novel is based on the real life events of the Siege of Sarajevo from 1992-1996, the longest siege of a capital city in modern history. Nested in the heart of the Balkans, Sarajevo was encircled by Serbian forces and a blockade was instituted to starve its citizens of hope and resources. Sarajevans lived under constant sniper fire and bombardment. Namely, the eponymous cellist watched outside his window as a mortar shell fell on a line of people waiting to buy bread. 22 people died and many others were injured. He was moved to pick up his cello, venture to the site of the bombing and play Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor for 22 days straight, 1 for each life that was lost. This sets the stage for the novel.
There is a tendency to view war as something that is distant, either in terms of physical distance or because it seems like something that is far in the past. Or again, academic analysis acts an emotional barrier to the harsh reality. In Social Studies class, we often look at war through the lens of ideological conflict, interspersed with statistics and dates: x amount of people died during this genocide during these years. Do we really comprehend the tremendous loss of life? Does hearing that a million people died make us mourn more, or does it cause us to distance ourselves even more because we just view it as numbers?
A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.
– Attributed to Joseph Stalin
Let’s use the analogy of a character dying in a book: You have gradually built up a connection with this character, can comment on their quirks and nuances, understand their flaws and strengths, their relationships with other people, their history, their aspirations. Then they die. It will break your heart because you have such a strong bond with them. You may protest: It’s not fair. They didn’t deserve to die. What will happen to their families and friends?
Yet, if a minor character dies, how do you feel? You did not get to build up a relationship with them – they are one of the countless people in the background of the novel. What if it’s a character that’s not even named? They are just one of the lives contained in the line: “twenty-two people died here.” Does this move you the same way compared to if one of your beloved characters dies? Maybe, maybe not.
The reality is, every single one of those individuals had vibrant and complex lives that you will never be able to fully understand. Think of your own life: all your failures and triumphs, your relationships with others, pain and happiness, indecision and clarity, likes and dislikes – I could expend the entire English language and still not be able to accurately capture the essence of being human. Take any person and their life is just as complex as your own.
And they’re now dead.
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
The bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
– From No Man is an Island by John Donne
Their life, like a brief candle, are snuffed out, never to burn again. Their individuality is lost forever, like a speck of sand in an endless desert. The death of someone you know well is tragic, but so is every other life when you think about it. Each person is linked together in an invisible network. When one person passes away, there is a ripple effect, starting from that individual’s innermost circle and slowly spreading out to complete strangers, who mourn for the loss of life too.
And war takes lives. Many lives. The Siege of Sarajevo saw nearly 14000 casualties. It’s easy again to fall into the trap of treating it like a number, a statistic. But remember the death of one person and how tragic that is. Then multiply that by tens, hundreds, and finally thousands of people who have been wiped from existence. Nevertheless, there are wars that are being fought today, where countless people are displaced and death is commonplace.
At the same time, I want to wrap myself up in the blanket of ignorance. I want to switch the TV channel when news stories come on and each segment seems to be another example of the dark side of humanity. My eyes glaze over when I see a headline about some tragic event. I suppose that’s one of the side effects of being in Canada my whole life. I become accustomed to my privilege and my comfortable view of life. I will never truly be able to grasp the horrors that I see on the news unless I’ve been in them myself.
What is it like to worry about being shot at when I walk in the streets? What is it like to worry about not having enough water for my family? What is it like? There’s too much distance for my empathy to bridge. Even now, I am typing words on a laptop, away from everything. You’re reading this on a phone or a computer, and you too, are emotionally distanced.
I am desensitized to war not because I’ve suffered a lot, but because of the exact opposite. I’ve had the privilege to carry my day-to-day life in a peaceful country, where I deal with first world problems like not having Wi-Fi connection. My whole conception of war is through the media, a blurring torrent of statistics and graphic images. It moves my heart, but at the same time, seeing suffering causes me to place even more bricks on my wall of ignorance.
Am I wrong for doing this? I feel so. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that war is too heavy for me to think about – it would consume everything else in my life and make me feel overwhelmingly dejected about the condition of the world. I admire those who can overcome this despair and do more than remark on the horrors they see – they do something about it. It takes courage to do what you can to prevent things from getting worse, instead of simply being a bystander.
After reading this article, what will you think? I know how easy it is to continuing going about your day. And you should. I am not saying you should suddenly grab a sword and become a crusader for justice. It’s difficult and reading some words will most likely not move you to do anything. However, if I have been able to make you think and reflect a bit, that’s what matters.
