The Barbarians are us—how
many times do the people with power go out to the wilderness and feel compelled
to conquer and dominate—and then dare to torture and humiliate innocent
people—and then—only then—when it happens to them (justly deserved, what goes
around comes around, baby), they are appalled by the cruelty that humans are
capable of when unchecked—the rule of law and justice ignored.
Waiting for the
Barbarians is a simple story—yet with incredible depth that will shake you
to your core—you’d have to be heartless not to be moved. I flinched a great
deal—immersed in sadness—the writing is gorgeous—there is beauty in ugliness
when it’s done right. The Magistrate of
an outpost of an unnamed land that is part of the simply named Empire, the
world is obviously described by its landscape—the oasis, the desert, the lake,
the reeds, the mountains—the people mostly unnamed, the girl, the child, the
grandson of the cook—of course the cook, only Colonel Joll, an official from
the Third Bureau of the Civil Guard from the Capital, is named. He’s the bad
guy you see—made bad ass because his main feature happens to be the sunglasses
he wears—the obstructed view into his eyes makes him unnerving and the
reference to how these new inventions prevent wrinkles around the eyes. He’s arrogant
and vain, never a good sign. The main character, referred to only as the
Magistrate, is an elder, he knows the people, the town, this land, he has an
interest in culture and artifacts found in the ruins, and he has an
understanding of the aboriginals and the nomadic “barbarians” that no one from
the Capital could possibly comprehend as they do not share in the experience.
The Magistrate soon finds himself a victim of his knowledge, of his experience,
of his interests, and of his serenity. He is accused of disloyalty—treason. The
human spirit can be broken and the body abused beyond recognition, yet life
goes on in spite of pain, in spite of horrors that no human should have to ever
endure.
It seemed troubling to me to be reading this book while the
world we live in is currently so full of unrest, Ukraine, Syria, Palestine,
Israel, Iraq, our border with Mexico is a landscape of human struggle, and
within our own United States—an Empire in its own right with far reaching
influence all over the world—there is unrest in a Missouri community called
Ferguson in which a white police officer shot and killed a black teenager one
summer night—initially because he was walking in the middle of the street,
drawing attention to himself—a senseless death. No matter what he had allegedly
done before or during the incident that wound up taking his life, Michael Brown
did not deserve to die like that—not like that. No one does.
The Barbarians are us—humans consciously do harm to another human
being if they feel it is just—justice. Justice is blind—and sometimes, she
looks the other way when she catches a glimpse from under the blindfold—the
rule of law manipulated by those in power. It’s terrifying because the power
can shift and suddenly the good guys are bad guys and the ones formerly known
as bad guys are the good guys, and suddenly, life is not so simple. The
Barbarians are at the gate—it depends on who you are, who the “barbarians” are
in your eyes—in your mind.
First I get lies, you see—this
is what happens—first lies, then pressure, then more lies, then more pressure,
then the break, then more pressure, then the truth…Pain is truth; all else is subject to doubt…The Empire does not require
that its servants love each other, merely that they perform their duty. P.
6
I am a country
magistrate, a responsible official in the service of the Empire, serving out my
days on this lazy frontier, waiting to retire…When I pass away I hope to merit
three lines of small print in the Imperial gazette. I have not asked for more
than a quiet life in quiet times. P. 9
The space about us
here is merely space, no meaner or grander than the space above the shacks and
tenements and temples and offices of the capital. Space is space, life is life,
everywhere the same. P. 18
I know somewhat too
much; and from this knowledge, once one has been infected, there seems to be no
recovering. I ought never to have taken my lantern to see what was going on in
the hut by the granary. On the other hand, there was no way, once I had picked
up the lantern, for me to put it down again. The knot loops in upon itself; I
cannot find the end. P. 23
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