Moral Dilemma (Part 2)
“The commandant spots you in the crowd. He knows you are a Christian. He knows you do not sin. He despises your little code of ethics that he believes to be founded only on superstition, but he thinks those superstitions might be useful to him. He comes to you and asks if you know who took the bread.
Now the temptation becomes immediate, personal, proposing new subtleties. Of course, you cannot say who the guilty one is, for that would kill him. Now the wrestling of conscience grows intense, and very confused. It is not a matter of careful thought; it is a struggle of spirits, forms, wordless meanings screaming in your confused mind. Only a little scrap of will holds firm.
You wonder if you should give him the only thing you can give. Should you say, ‘Yes, I know who took the bread’? That would be the truth, would it not? Would there be a lie in it?
Now all eyes are turned to you. The commandant bellows at you. He demands to know the thief’s identity. You are silent. They can break you—they can make you tell, if they decide to torture you—but for the moment you have the power of silence. ‘Speak!’ he shouts, and slaps you hard in the face. Now you are shaking in every limb; fear is a fire scorching you from within. You try to pray, but it is almost impossible to pray, for every element of your humanity is overwhelmed by fright.
‘If you will not speak,’ says the commandant, ‘then at least point out the thief to me.’
Still you are silent. What to do? They could easily kill you for your silence. Why should you, you who are innocent, pay for the sin of the thief? You shake; you do not know what to do; you are about to open your mouth.
Suddenly, a man steps forward from the crowd. Not the thief. Another man. He comes before the commandant. He points to his own heart.
‘So, you are the thief!’ screams the commandant.
Once again the man points to his own heart.
Everyone is stunned. Who would have believed it of him, for he is the best, the strongest, and the humblest of the zeks. It is unthinkable that such a man would steal. Even in the camps, where starving men have a moral right to steal bread without guilt, this is one who is scrupulously honest. Never would he let a fellow zek be shot for his crime! And yet one has just been shot. Only you and the real thief know he is innocent.
Everyone is confounded. The zeks are perplexed. The commandant is uncertain. The guards are confused. You can see the doubt on every face: Not him? Surely not this one? The silence becomes unbearable. No one is able to break it. At this moment, which for prisoners and jailers alike is the very axis of history, anything said would have completely exposed their souls. All eyes drop to the ground.
Finally, because he is a man of power and burdened with responsibility, the commandant looks up. He gestures to a guard; then he gives the word of command, and the guard drives the butt of his gun into the face of the prisoner. He collapses to the ground. He is struck again and again. Blows from the rifle, kicks, punches. Other guards join in the beating. When the man is a heap of pulp, they drag him away, leaving a bloody trail. This trail crosses the river of blood spilled by the first man. A cross is now written in the snow.”
~Michael O’Brien
Now the temptation becomes immediate, personal, proposing new subtleties. Of course, you cannot say who the guilty one is, for that would kill him. Now the wrestling of conscience grows intense, and very confused. It is not a matter of careful thought; it is a struggle of spirits, forms, wordless meanings screaming in your confused mind. Only a little scrap of will holds firm.
You wonder if you should give him the only thing you can give. Should you say, ‘Yes, I know who took the bread’? That would be the truth, would it not? Would there be a lie in it?
Now all eyes are turned to you. The commandant bellows at you. He demands to know the thief’s identity. You are silent. They can break you—they can make you tell, if they decide to torture you—but for the moment you have the power of silence. ‘Speak!’ he shouts, and slaps you hard in the face. Now you are shaking in every limb; fear is a fire scorching you from within. You try to pray, but it is almost impossible to pray, for every element of your humanity is overwhelmed by fright.
‘If you will not speak,’ says the commandant, ‘then at least point out the thief to me.’
Still you are silent. What to do? They could easily kill you for your silence. Why should you, you who are innocent, pay for the sin of the thief? You shake; you do not know what to do; you are about to open your mouth.
Suddenly, a man steps forward from the crowd. Not the thief. Another man. He comes before the commandant. He points to his own heart.
‘So, you are the thief!’ screams the commandant.
Once again the man points to his own heart.
Everyone is stunned. Who would have believed it of him, for he is the best, the strongest, and the humblest of the zeks. It is unthinkable that such a man would steal. Even in the camps, where starving men have a moral right to steal bread without guilt, this is one who is scrupulously honest. Never would he let a fellow zek be shot for his crime! And yet one has just been shot. Only you and the real thief know he is innocent.
Everyone is confounded. The zeks are perplexed. The commandant is uncertain. The guards are confused. You can see the doubt on every face: Not him? Surely not this one? The silence becomes unbearable. No one is able to break it. At this moment, which for prisoners and jailers alike is the very axis of history, anything said would have completely exposed their souls. All eyes drop to the ground.
Finally, because he is a man of power and burdened with responsibility, the commandant looks up. He gestures to a guard; then he gives the word of command, and the guard drives the butt of his gun into the face of the prisoner. He collapses to the ground. He is struck again and again. Blows from the rifle, kicks, punches. Other guards join in the beating. When the man is a heap of pulp, they drag him away, leaving a bloody trail. This trail crosses the river of blood spilled by the first man. A cross is now written in the snow.”
~Michael O’Brien
Comments