Truth was a mirror in the hands of God
It fell, and broke into pieces.
Everybody took a piece of it,
and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.
-Rumi
In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh. Or rather blood. It's as if the red of our flag is taking a terrible and literal significance these days. There is blood flowing everywhere. Even from the statues in churches. And since God is a Trini His blood must flow too. Not even a state of emergency can stop the blood from flowing. Nor even a starboy crime-watcher. But flowing blood is their business. If there were no criminals, who would buy into their business of fear? The blood flows and then is soon forgotten. Like the flooding carnage in Maraval. How quickly people forget the way roads turn to rivers and everything in its path can get washed away. Mother Nature gets the blame for being extreme and unreasonable.
And the mud of denuded hills flows like blood down our streets, making rivers out of roads. We balk at the carnage and weep for lost possessions. And do not ever bother to blame ourselves. We continue to cut down the hills and put up concrete monstrosities where once there used to be trees. We dump our rubbish in the rivers and make plans to outlaw glass bottles for Carnival and not consider what an environmental disaster it would be in a country where recycling is as frequent as arrests of big fish. Blood flows from church statues. Or red blood-like fluid. Who is to know what is real or what is fake anymore. What is for sure is that the Christ they worship has blood that is as red as mine. As red as Uncle Sat's. As red as Ashmead Choate's.
The same red blood flows in everybody. But we presume that the skin that covers it is more important than the blood that keeps us alive. The same red blood flows in everybody but some will tell you "it's not racism, it's tradition," with a straight face and not understand how sad and backward that makes us. The Gods we claim to fear. The Gods we pray to for salvation even as we destroy the hills and hate our neighbours and deny our sons the love of difference must be embarrassed at how loudly we wail at them. At how we call their names in our human bacchanal of fear and confusion. It's enough to make statues weep blood so red.
Blood drips to a floor. Not just in Moruga. It drips every day from too many bodies of too many citizens who cannot find protection from either church or state. Not for naked rape victims in a police station. Not for the people of a village who see their own gunned down in broad daylight. Blood is dripping everywhere and it is not a good sign. It is not a sign that we should worship at the feet of gun-toting police and soldiers. It is not a sign that we should build more prisons and higher walls. It is not a sign that we should continue to buy into the politics of fear. But fear is bigger business than God in this town. And some of us have television time to preach the gospel of terror every evening to a captive audience.
The blood drips and flows and we forget the broadcast of somebody's child being raped. Somebody's son being prodded on a morgue table. Such is the righteousness of those who preach the gospel of terror in a nation where blood flows. But maybe even the Gods play tricks on us. Taking a page from the books of politicians they toy with our emotions. Send us false prophets. Who makes it possible for us to tell the difference between what is real and what is fake? Who equips us with the skills to know the difference?
We are desperate for answers but the Gods send ambiguous signs open to the manic interpretations of those already steeped in fear and self-loathing and also the loathing of others. I wonder if all the blood we sacrifice will become prayers we offer up in the hope of something better. If all the people whose throats we slit, whose bodies we pump with bullets will not have died in vain. Or if we simply continue to wallow in the dripping blood. Praying for a sign that everything will be alright. Praying for someone to deliver us from the temptations of flesh. From the shedding of blood. From the assassination of characters and the eradication of shame. There is no room for a sliver of black and white anymore. The red is spreading, covering us all in a red of guilt and helplessness.