Silent Suffering

It’s quite difficult putting up a post after the sad news of Busi’s passing. Every time I click on the blog I see her picture and I can’t of anything to write because I wonder what the point of most of my preoccupations are. So I’m going to defer my post on why I distrust cartographers for a while. Instead, I will share with you a line from a short story I wrote recently called “Silent Suffering.” I toyed with the idea of making this the last line in the story (as I am toying with the idea of putting up a post called ‘last lines’), but I eventually put it in the body.

And so we suffer, not because we are silent, but because our silence defies our oppressors…and ourselves.

Busi was anything but silent. And through that she accomplished much. But the reason I wrote this story was because I was asked to think about silence that serves a purpose…silence where we make the choice to be silent. A silence that defies. I think of writers, artists, activists, and the different ways in which silence can manifest itself. What if we stopped writing? What if we stopped painting? What if we stopped? Would we have stopped speaking? Is there a way to make our presence felt by our absence? And in the end is it all worth it?

I’m interested to know if there are concrete examples of the successes (or failures) of silence, because to my mind, a conscious act of silence, if you have something to say (which is arguable), is an act of silent suffering.

We think that by being silent we do not acknowledge and so we do not legitimize…them. It is a worthy equation.