Dearest Rachel –
I don’t know enough about Indian history to know the specifics that prompted her demise, honey, but I know that Indira Gandhi was assassinated, just like her father-in-law, the supposedly beloved “great soul” Mahatma, and eventually her son Rajiv. However, last night found me at her side at some point in the past, listening to her exult at some recent development – maybe a sporting event, as nothing brings a people together like an international championship, even if I may not personally understand the game or the situation – and talking excitedly about how this might be the beginning of a new era of peace within her nation.
All the while, as the anachronism in the scene, I found myself smiling sadly. Because I knew better. I knew what would ultimately happen to her – and her son – because I’d already been there, and I knew her hopes were in vain.
Then again, were they? Again, I don’t know enough about the nation’s history to speak of how violent it’s been – although three generations of leaders cut down by assassins doesn’t particularly speak well for it. Then again, we in America have a record of four assassinations out of forty-six Presidents ourselves – to say nothing of the attempts that have been made and failed, which has to at least double that number – so we can lay no claim on a “peaceful” existence ourselves. Or can we? Does the moment a gunshot ring out negate the entirety of a leader’s otherwise calm presence and administration? Or does that single moment simply bring into stark relief the fact that their term was marred by internal unrest and chaos that lingered just below the surface the whole time?
Such is the literal impact of what I think I’ve referred to before as the “assassin’s veto.” I’m pretty sure it’s not a phrase of my own creation, although I can’t pin down who coined it. A single person with a lethal weapon can, in an instant, negate the entirety of another person’s existence – both the existence itself, and its goals – and call into question the victim’s successes. One may strive for peace throughout one’s lifetime, but if one is cut down violently, such striving obviously ceases. Not only that, the act may provoke a cascade of further violence, as supporters of both victim and assassin may all but declare war on each other. Suddenly, everything the victim worked for throughout their lives is utterly ruined, like a grand edifice burned to ashes.
This gives something poignant to every moment of accomplishment, every celebration of progress throughout their lives, when those of us on the outside know how their story concludes – which is to say, not with the traditional “happily ever after” fairy tale ending. It makes one wonder why one would bother with building a legacy, when someone else can sweep it away with a single terrible action. And it’s not as if the hard-working victim is aware of any of this, being dead and all.
True, there are those who become martyrs to their cause, and draw others to it for their inadvertent willingness to die for it. At the same time, has their cause been advanced by any of it? India, while undoubtedly the world’s largest democracy, is still very much a third-world country, riven with cultural and religious strife. Then again, as an American, I’ve little right to criticize, as we have our fair share of similar victims; Martin Luther King comes to mind, in particular. Until a few years ago, I might have said we had made progress toward a society where people would, as he put it, be judged by the content of their character rather than the color of their skin, but it doesn’t seem at all like that any more. Now, it seems like we’re at a place where white equals evil and black righteous, no matter the actual circumstances. With such an inflexible structure, it would seem that those considered irredeemably evil merely due to the content of their skin might just decide to go ahead and let the content of their character reflect that in turn. What would Doctor King have thought of that?
They say you should never meet your heroes, as they will disappoint you one you see them in person. I’m sure there are exceptions, but that’s a fairly solid rule of thumb. Likewise, it’s probably a good thing we can’t go back in time and meet those we think of as real heroes – those whose legacies survive them over the course of decades, centuries and even millennia. Even if they turn out to be as wonderful as they’re depicted to us through historical retelling – an unlikely possibility, as historians are as prone to spin as journalists – there’s always a tinge to every moment, every encounter, as those that know them only from said history books know how they end up, whether a success or failure, and how their people honor the prophets that arise from their own country. Spoiler alert; it rarely ends well. Life has a hundred percent mortality rate, and no one is completely beloved, whether in their own time or the ages that follow. And with the world as fallen as it is, and entropy being a law of nature (including human nature), every great individual’s dreams of peace are ultimately futile, like trying to command the tides to stop and go no farther.
My apologies for the downer of a message, honey, but these are the things that will occur to me some mornings. We might well have talked about these in person, had you still been here; I’m sure we had these kind of discussions of one morning or another, but I don’t remember the specifics, any more than I recall what was behind any of the assassinations of the three generations of the Gandhi line. But now you have this thought as it occurs to me, only without your input to likely temper my own cynicism and pessimism.
And with that being said, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 