My words feel and useless and superfluous in a world so on fire with violence. I don’t know that I’ve found any words worth speaking or writing, and yet here I watch my fingers continue to march around on my keyboard as if I have. More than words, perhaps all I have to offer right now is an image: a space of refuge, one that is more earth than world. An image—maybe as some sort of prayer—of the safe and quiet belly of the earth.
On October 7th, and in the days immediately after, I was struck by the circulating images of Israelis in their underworld bomb shelters, waiting for danger to pass. In the wake of that attack, as Israel has dropped bombs on Gaza, I’ve been wondering how many Palestinians have been able to find some refuge in those miles of underworld tunnel networks. It seems to me that every time the tunnels are referenced, in the news, they’re spoken about as if they’re merely tools of warfare and not part of a safety infrastructure for civilians. But I hope that this story is incomplete, and that those passages below this world on fire have been able to save some civilian lives. I hope they have found some refuge there, in the belly of the earth.
The underworld has been many things to us: to humans in different times and places. The underworld is dangerous to us, for many reasons. It’s not a space where we can thrive, so it’s often seen as a world for the dead. But, despite these dangers posed by the belly of the earth, the underworld has also always been a refuge for us. It’s been a space to hide, and to escape. It’s always provided an earth beyond the horrors of the world.
Some weeks ago, for reasons I don’t entirely recall, I found myself reflecting on the difference between a burrow and a bunker. A burrow, I mused, is always and infinitely better than a bunker. Admittedly, I wasn’t thinking about imminent dangers, or about bombs. I was thinking about the wealthy Americans who’ve built up their own elaborate and private underworlds, just in case of emergency. I was thinking about how closed off—how privatized—these underworlds are, and how the greediness of a bunker like that is always inevitably less cozy than a burrow, which is inherently open to those in the world who know how to find it, and crawl into it. You can’t fabricate the feeling of coziness. It has to be discovered, and I don’t think we can discover it in a space built to protect greed.
Now, I feel a bit of guilt for having failed to think about real danger, or even the ever-present risk of it. My own safety so completely surrounds me, perhaps it shuts me off or cuts me off. A bunker isn’t simply a show of private wealth (although it can be that), it’s also a response to danger.
Or perhaps the reason that a refuge is a refuge, in the first place, is because it’s public on some basic level. It’s open, and discoverable. Like our bodies, with portals that keep our senses open, this makes a refuge vulnerable to dangers of all sorts. It’s porous. And yet this also means that a refuge can let in a little bit of light.
I know how horrifying the world looks out there. But I still keep thinking prayerfully (which is something other than hopefully) about refuge. Whatever a refuge is, wherever a refuge is, I pray that it remains open and discoverable to those who need it now.
Thank you for sharing this. I have been mulling over how to speak to/about this painful moment in our world, and I, too, feel a need to find some sort of refuge as well, a refuge for gathering my head, a refuge for praying (more than merely hoping as you rightly say) for solutions, a refuge for courage (ironically as that may sound) to do my part. I am praying for the refuge and safety of those innocent lives trapped and displaced among the hatred and violence, and I want to be able to know and do what I can do in these moments. But finding light and resonance from words like these are essential. So thank you for your words.