"When Fate Knocks at the Door,
Take It By the Throat"
by Edward Curtin
"It is getting harder and harder to breathe. The world grows smaller as storms gather. All night the storm raged furiously, the lightning, thunder, rain, and wind locking us in and away from the world. No one expected it to be this bad. The dogs howled like wolves.
At most they said it would hinder us, and we, wanting to believe the experts who daily warn of something to fear – overripe bananas, marginal risks of severe weather, squirrel flu, spiders in tight pants, the wrong mascara, fear of falling in loose pants – accepted. Now we are huddled against the onslaught, gasping at the fury that imprisons us.
No one can sleep with the roar and rapping all around. Dawn comes slowly and dark. We huddle around our dinguses to link us to a world we cannot see or hear. They don’t ding. We have lost power. Someone wonders if the satellites are still up, but the sky is too dark for auguries. We listen to the clatter of an eerie silence. Our silence. We are all unknowingly holding our breaths. Another says, I think our phones are wasted, it feels like digital death. The dogs nod.
It is getting harder and harder to hear. Beethoven was so young to become deaf to the world. Someone says this for some unknown reason. She is old. She then says he said, “I will take fate by the throat, it shall not overcome me... I feel that I am not made for a quiet life.” The kids laugh. The windows and roof shake, the dogs howl, I think how true. For me, at least.
Yesterday the Israelis killed 104 Palestinians in Gaza. Par for the course, a daily occurrence. Many children among them. Did those kids hear the bombs and bullets coming? Were they gasping for breath? They are no longer breathing. Did they call out to God? Do hundreds call out? Thousands call? Millions? Which God? The slaughterers made them dead on prayers to their genocidal God who lives in Tel Aviv.
God help us. How? The phones are wasted. Where is the Good God hiding? How can we call him?
The immigrant grandmother, hiding here from Trump’s masked thugs, says through her tears, do any of you remember how in Colombia 25,000 people, 8,000 children, all innocent, died, none of whom are calling out now, as the survivors did when they asked the great good God, why these savage deaths, after the Nevado del Ruiz volcano erupted and stuffed their mouths with mud, courtesy of Vulcan, the God of fire, courtesy of God Almighty.
No one answers her. Her prayers are singed with a cynicism that she hates. We can’t answer. Most don’t remember. Who will tell her why the good God, the good Earth, their mother rose up to bury so many in mud? Who can tell the survivors’ families why Our Lady of Guadalupe rose and drowned their loved ones recently?
Who is this person called Fate who knocks at our doors? Mother Nature? Father Grinning Jackal in suit and tie with blood oozing through his fake teeth, talking casually about nuclear war and slaughtering the innocent?
An old man says, let’s listen, we must defy fate. He puts a record on the battery operated record player. The wind is howling hideously so he turns the sound up to full volume. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C minor rocks the room, the walls shake like dice in a cup, tossing us on such swells of feeling that time is arrested in its turning. One hears the call to revolution.
Suddenly it is October 1962, a man is time-travelling. The Cuban Missile Crisis – real fear everywhere. Fate knocking on the door, obedient men propped at flashing boards, in Moscow and Washington, D.C., awaiting orders. They are still waiting.
There was a call then. A few men heard it. It was soul deep. In those days there were humans who could recite poetry, grasp the meaning of madness. We survived and have moved on. They call it progress. Technological progress. The machines have the answers to all our questions, except the important ones.
Who will answer the wailing voices seeking answers? Who can tell them why the good God, the good earth their mother rose up to bury them in mud and water? Who dare answer the 1,000,000 Pakistani dead, drowned on November 13, 1970 beneath a cyclone driven tidal wave? Or maybe it was two or three million. Who knows? Who cares to ask: Was it an act of Mother Nature, of God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth? Tell me, who the hell is responsible?
It is getting harder and harder to breathe. The world grows smaller as storms gather. We have been wasted by the phones, dinguses that will not save us from the nuclear weapons that the jackals with polished faces have prepared. Dead men sit at flashing boards awaiting orders. It is depressing but true, and while naturally we cannot stop nature from devouring her children, we can stop the human killers from their appointed task to close down the world and engender all a silent void.
Long later, hours, years – who knows when? – the unexpected storm abated, the roads out were cleared. It was still hazardous to try. The old man who played Beethoven said as we were leaving that we must take fate by the throat and hear the silent cries of all the people desperate for peace on earth."
“Oh, it is so beautiful to live – to live a thousand times. I feel that I am not made for a quiet life.”
