Miriam Feder home


Ruth’s Rage

My blood boils at the stories of suffering, stupid systematic hate-filled-ness. It’s so unfair. What a weak silly thought—childlike. What’s fair? And didn’t I always hear exactly that from my Mother when I was a child? “Life isn’t fair.”

One group savages another, strips them of their rights, their livelihoods, their safety and sometimes arbitrarily their lives. These things are so basic and their deprivation so unimaginable. It stretches from the beginning of time to tomorrow–what torment and what injustice. It makes me feel sick and powerless. How can a civilized people slip into the abyss and take the world through it with them?

Don’t we have to scream, and kick and rage at this outrage? It’s wrong to be reasonable and rational in the face of horror and cruelty, even when it’s an old pain, an old murder.

Mother, did you scream? Did you cry? Did you pound and hate and squeeze? Did it infect everything you ever did? Where is that line? When does the blood stop roiling?