A Letter

Sinan Antoon’s “A Letter” is so quiet in its approach, and devastating in its message. It expresses the “outrage” without being outrageous and re-humanizes the effects of a careless attack. There is much to be outraged about -- war, mass murder, the purposeful disregard of human suffering, classifying civilian casualties as “collateral damage,” the abandonment of democratic ideals, etc., etc., etc.

The first word of the poem is “silently.” This form of poem, “a letter,” is not vocal; it is a silent expression (unless it is read aloud). Our speaker is clear about whom he is addressing; he is addressing “[t]he dead Iraqis.” But in addressing them, which could be read as a passive position for them, he turns it around and focuses our attention on them. They are on center stage. By writing his poem, Sinan Antoon has given a voice to those who are no longer able to speak. There are “[g]ive or take a few hundred thousands.” The numbers alone are enough to cause our outrage. Why are the American people, in whose name the war is being fought, oblivious to the numbers of Iraqi people who are being killed in this war? During the Bush Administration, pictures of the coffins of American casualties were prohibited from being published in U.S. newspapers so it shouldn’t be surprising that we wouldn’t be made aware of the Iraqi casualties, but it doesn’t excuse the ignorance. This is all in the introduction, or salutation, of the letter.

The body of the letter, using the subjunctive mood, portrays the dead as “birds,” “trees,” and “words,” and concludes “[b]ut you are none of these/And you had to pass quietly and uneventfully.” As “birds” they “could have flown en masse” meaning they could have escaped, but they also would have caused a “natural” phenomenon that experts such as “meteorologists and bird-watchers surely would have noticed.” In other words, they would have attracted the attention of specialists who observe these kinds of things. Who are the equivalent people who are the “watchers” for the dead? We are, or we should be, but we don't see them.

If the dead “had...been trees/[they] would have made a beautiful forest/whose destruction would have been deemed a crime/against the planet.” The word “crime” here ends its line and emphasizes the horrific acts that have been imposed upon the Iraqi population. The growth of the trees is an appropriate comparison here. There are so many people concerned about the devastation of the planet’s natural resources, but where are the people who will “see the forest for the trees?” It’s a cliché, but it works; among the few hundred thousands is each actual individual whose life has been devastated. Each was living his or her life; each had a family, each was destroyed.

If the dead “had...been words,/[they] would have made a precious book/or manuscript whose loss/ would be mourned across the world.” Now we’re looking at the few hundred thousands as a group rather than as individuals, and they are valuable; they are worthy of notice and mourning. I’m reminded of the Taliban’s destruction of historical works of art, in particular the Buddhas of Bamyan in Afghanistan in 2001, and the world’s outrage at this violence. Where is the outrage at the devastation of the Iraqi people?

Antoon, in a news article (Democracy and Necrology – Al-Ahram Weekly 2005), said, “the dead do not vote,” and in the poem, he says, “No one will campaign for you/No one cares to represent you/No absentee ballots have been issued or sent.” The idea of the dead having an “absentee ballot” is such an evocative image. The Iraqis had elections in 2005; I remember the inked fingers of those who voted, and I remember those Iraqis who, by violence and other forms of intimidation, were prevented from voting. The spread of democracy was one of the rationalizations for the war in Iraq, but the freedom to vote was a charade. Even those alive did not have a voice.

Later, the writer of our letter says, the dead Iraqis will be acknowledged, but not now, not while it’s happening. It will take “decades” for a monument, a museum or names on a wall, and only if they are “lucky.” We’ve seen this happen before through other wars, genocides, holocausts. “Until then, [they] may welcome more to [their] midst.” The numbers will grow “and form a vast silent chorus/of ghosts,/condemning the spectators and the actors.” Again, the dead are silent, but they have something to say, as does the poet, to those who have watched this happen and those who have made this happen. We will be condemned.

The closing of the letter “Exeunt Omens!” is similar to a stage direction recognizable from Shakespeare – “exeunt omnes” – which means “all the characters who are on the stage leave,” but the variation in the spelling to “omens” expands the meaning. We see the disappearance of the birds, the rain forests, and precious works of art as harbingers of the world as we know it disappearing, and we protest, but this contrasts with the way the Iraqi dead have disappeared, i.e., have been destroyed, with the world’s tacit approval. Quiet, but powerful.

Sheila Joseph