Ghosts in the flesh.

On the tenacity of restless spirits.

The view from a bunker on Matsu Island, Taiwan. Photo by Juozas Cernius.

A sickness passes through generations, flaring up in the bones of children who never felt the original wound. It moves through the city and the countryside like a phantom, passing unabated through wood, stone, and flesh, until it nests in human consciousness. It is unseen but felt in the way doors close a little too quickly and greetings are swallowed before they are spoken. Some days, long-buried frustrations erupt into torrents of rage. Words radiate like shrapnel, wounding those in close proximity, usually loved ones. It happens amongst nations, too, with collective anger materializing as murder and genocide but masquerading as moral righteousness.

In the end, no one remembers who first lit the fire, but the ashes settle over the very souls of survivors and perpetrators alike, so that in a generation or two, the roles will be reversed and the pain will run even deeper. Every experience is tainted by the echoes of old screams. The irony is that for those who, in the current round, are the victors, sweetness becomes bland in the mouth, excitement devolves into tedium, while joy falls into a dull stupor. The hubris and gloating over the plundered resources and the spoils of war develop cataracts of fear and insecurity making fertile ground for mercenaries and profiteers. Love itself is weakened to a yawning indifference when concrete is poured over fresh graves as foundations for new shopping malls.

For those who wished to bomb their way to peace, victory can run hollow. They end up harboring unexpected, unwanted, and bitterly persistent envy of the vanquished. It bubbles up in secret, of course, for the moral integrity of the enemy remains anathema to the purveyors of propaganda and writers of victory speeches, but the truth of the matter outlives the heartbeats of the dead. Down deep, the aggressors know true love was wrecked, but not destroyed. And so the ghosts multiply, haunting cities, rivers, and fields until they are locked back into the imagination, renewing their torments.

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