non serviam: musings of love, language, living, and rebellion

to whom do we owe compassion?

article_7d2d70a6796e4dfb_1365427727_9j-4aaqskWhen I heard the news that Margaret Thatcher took her last breaths yesterday I was confused as to my sorrow. Why should I grieve for Ms. Thatcher? How could my heart be troubled by her earthly depature? 

But now it has come to me that maybe it is not her for whom I lament, but for the people I call friend and comrade and the host who *rejoice* at her death. All this time I’ve been under the impression that we were fighting for a better world–one without hatred. How can I trust my allies whose hearts beat in concert with oppression? How can I know those who love me when love cannot exist in the same space as hate? And if we are not fighting in the name of love, what then are we fighting for?

Who am I to condemn Ms. Thatcher? I do not know her story. She was somebody’s child who must’ve loved her, right? She was certainly not born to commit atrocity. Was she not a women negotiating the same obstacles of patriarchy as any other woman? Maybe she dreamed of being something and someone different than how she will be remembered. Could it be that as a young girl her heart had been broken by someone she loved? I know what that feels like. Is there no one who laments her passing? Is there no one who loved her? No, I cannot rejoice in their sorrow nor anyone’s pain. 

Who among us is worthy to pass judgment? Is it not true that:

“We are easily shocked by crimes which appear at once in their full magnitude, but the gradual growth of our own wickedness, endeared by interest, and palliated by all the artifices of self-deceit, gives us time to form distinctions in our own favor.” ~Samuel Johnson~

Good night Ms. Thatcher, may those who have long awaited you grant you mercy, forgiveness, and a resting place!

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