Everything has changed since my last blog. I have started writing this at least sixteen times as new thoughts, experiences and reflections arise. This won’t be the most coherent thing I’ve ever written but there is no blueprint for a blog post prompted by an atrocity.
We are a small country (4.794 million minus 50). We are all affected. You’ve heard of six degrees of separation? Here - it’s two. No joke. We all know someone who knows someone directly connected with the horror.
As I sit at a cafe writing (attempt 17) this I overhear a pakeha (NZ of Euro descent) man discussing with the Korean barista the number of operations the youngest surviving victim (4yrs) has endured. That would be 8. “It’s very, very sad,” I hear him say. They both go quiet. And I choke up. This is happening a lot recently. To all of us.
I hope the response of the Muslim community here has reached your shores. It isn’t only Jacinda who has been an exemplar of beautiful humanity. Our Muslim sisters and brothers have humbled us with their expressions of forgiveness, their fortitude in loss, their courage in speaking up about their experiences of racism and their fears; their appreciation of the support they are receiving; their hospitality - often expressed in the offer of a cup or bottle of water. An ordinary polystyrene cup is now laden with meaning.
We went to our local Islamic center on Friday night. I received a little hand-written scroll. It read, We feel safe because you are here. Grateful. Your Muslim neighbour. We gave them a scroll with the handprints of every person in our church - hands to bless, support, wave hello, upturned in questioning, extended in friendship. These simple, mutual acts are holding all of us together. Crayons and kraft paper against hate speech and military-style weapons. It appears to be working.
Children from the mosque clustered around a young police officer like flies 'round a honey pot. Patting his kevlar vest, swamping him with questions – “what’s this?” “My gun.” “Is it real?” “It is, yes.” “Why are you here?” Oh, how do you answer that? He was delightful with them and hilarious too. I’m not sure any briefing would have prepared him for that experience. He just was himself. Our children are not used to seeing guns. May they never be.
I came out of the mosque with a new phone number in my contacts. Nahila. She met me at the door to the prayer hall, held my hand and wouldn’t let it go. We stood there, we hugged and we kissed each other on both cheeks. We had that “spark of recognition” John O’Donohue describes in Anam Cara. Our souls recognised each other. Eye to eye, face to face, heart to heart. Something happened. I’ve experienced it before – a connection that transcends culture, and language and distance. That intense moment can be lost if not acted upon so I said, “let’s meet for tea” and we shared contacts on our phones.
Upstairs in the women’s area, my friend and I were the only non-Muslims there. I recognise these spaces from frequent trips to India and minority Christian communities there. There is something warm and wonderful in women’s spaces. A cluster of lovely hijab-wearing high schoolers from across the Muslim world embraced us and over and over we heard, “Thank you, thank you for coming.” We laughed heartily at how irritating this must be for the perpetrator; we were gleeful together at the subversion of love and how funny it is when the one Muslim girl in her “friend group” was getting stressy texts from her Christian friend on how to wrap a headscarf! We thanked them for bravely inviting us and we savoured the feel of the carpet under our feet, received more cups of water and gazed with wonder and affection into the brown eyes of other mothers’ daughters while in the corner a woman quietly cried and was comforted and a waiata (Maori song) floated up from the gathering of dignitaries outside.
I know Christian people who think people like me are wishy-washy. Compromisers. Funnily enough, in our very non-religious society, the people pouring into the streets, buying up the flowers and standing subdued with arms around strangers, are not church-goers but they understand, deep down, what true religion is. It is that which binds us, which re-ligaments or puts us back together individually and corporately. It is to love the stranger and alien, to care for the widow and orphan; to bind up the wounds and be with the broken-hearted; to speak truth to power where power is not exercised in love. We can do all kinds of things but if we have not love we are are nothing but noise.
Love is winning here. Love has silenced military-style weapons in our country. Love is silencing hate-speech on social media. Love is inviting us into spaces we never thought we’d be. Love is like that.
Thank you, Kent.
Posted by: Fran Francis | March 31, 2019 at 01:51 PM
beautiful...thank you
Posted by: kent | March 31, 2019 at 08:38 AM