Friday
I have shared this Carolyn Forché atrocity poem in the past when Trump wanted to reinstate CIA black sites and bring back waterboarding, but I didn’t think I would ever apply it to actual dismemberments. This is where we are, however, so I’m posting it again.
The Saudis dismembered Washington Post journalist and American permanent resident, perhaps when he was still alive:
Saudi agents were waiting when Jamal Khashoggi walked into their country’s consulate in Istanbul two weeks ago. Mr. Khashoggi was dead within minutes, beheaded, dismembered, his fingers severed, and within two hours the killers were gone, according to details from audio recordings described by a senior Turkish official on Wednesday.
Donald Trump, who openly admits to relying on Saudi money in his business enterprises, is trying out different cover-up stories to let Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman (MBS) off the hook. The rest of the world marvels at the prince’s brazenness, not only in this instance, but in others as well (remember the virtual kidnapping of the Lebanese prime minister last year). Forché’s poem may provide insight into MBS’s mindset.
Forche´took a trip to El Salvador in the 1980s to see for herself the dictatorship at work. At one point, she had dinner with a military colonel, during which time the following took place:
The Colonel
By Carolyn Forché
WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man’s legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
The poem shows a leader believing he can do whatever he wants with impunity, which is easier when one has American backing. El Salvador’s military junta had such support during the Reagan years, just as Saudi Arabia and Israel have it now. Those bolstered by the world’s most powerful country can afford to tell people to “go fuck themselves.” In fact, they find it exhilarating.
This explains why so many in the GOP are hypnotized by Trump at the moment. Where other politicians might squirm, he simply shrugs his shoulders at the latest appalling act, such as mocking Dr. Blasey Ford at a rally. Other Republicans are taking note how he escapes any accountability, as are a number of ordinary Americans, who are letting their bigot flags fly.
In the poem, note how the son and daughter act as though nothing amiss. They could just as well be Trump’s wealthy supporters, not to mention his family, as they overlook threats of menacing violence (broken bottles, a moon that swings like a single lightbulb in a torture chamber). The papers, pets, and television program suggest normality.
Mixed in with the normalcy, however, is a pistol on the pillow and iron grates on the windows, contradicting the elegance of the meal and the casual conversation.
Then the colonel appears with his paper bag, and the horror spills out into the open.
The severed ears function as witnesses, as does Forché’s. We need such truthtelling, even as Trump seeks to undermine it. Dictators can be brazen only when they have terrorized people into silence.
Further thought: For a fine article on how Trump and his followers get off on cruelty, check out Adam Sewer’s article in Atlantic: “The Cruelty Is the Point: President Trump and his supporters find community by rejoicing in the suffering of those they hate and fear”
