Much troubled by the unrelenting news of conflict, I returned to the unspoken garden. The paths, plants, pond and trees are always a source of solace, but peace of mind is incomplete when I am constantly reminded of those who are denied it. I consulted Octosocci, the spider sage.
I cannot understand why we still start wars after all that history has taught us, I said. This is what she told me:
There are only two reasons why you start wars, she said: greed and grudge. People start wars to get rich or get even.
Perhaps, I said, but do they really get richer? And getting even does not end a grudge match, it just perpetuates it.
The supposed benefits do not propel the war, she said. They are excuses. The motive is self-gratification: the fulfilment the war-maker gets from fighting, usually from a safe distance.
What do you mean? I asked.
She flexed each of her legs, checking the security of her web. It is possible to consider your individual existence as being within an infinite sequence of concentric bubbles, each encased by the next, like Russian dolls, or the rings of my silken net. Bubble two contains just your physical self, bubble three includes your partners or soul mate, bubble four has close family and friends, bubble five, less close family and friends, bubble six, work colleagues or schoolmates, bubble seven, wider acquaintances and the like. You can extrapolate and categorise as far as you want in that manner wrapping all existence in ever-expanding spheres.
But what about bubble one I asked?
Well bubble one contains all the others, she said, but no physical things at all, not even your own body. Bubble one is your mind’s mirror. It is not where you live, but where you experience your life. It is also where wars start.
I told Octosocci that war is much more common than I had thought. Over a hundred and fifty armed conflicts are reported annually, I had discovered. Over fifty are thought to be in progress currently.
Peace is not the absence of war, she told me. It is war’s waiting room.
I told her that I could agree with that, but I struggled to understand the mentality of those who eagerly summon the next one.
Every firestorm starts with a spark, said Octosocci. It is easy to make a spark; it can be impossible to put out a fire.
I told her that wars are often justified by claiming they made the world a better place “for our children and grandchildren”. But I am the child of parents who survived The Second World War and the grandchild of a grandfather who survived the First. In terms of the number of wars being fought and the manner in which they kill children and grandchildren, I have to report that the world is not a better place. So my fellow sapiens can stop using that excuse, I said, bitterly.
She twitched three of her legs. The web shivered a little. It must be said, she said, that most wars are initiated by men. Women rarely do so. You could point a leg at testosterone, but that may be wide of the true target. I believe the blame lies with bubble one.
I asked her how she, a spider, could know.
I have eight eyes, she said. As did my octo-zillion ancestors. We’ve spent a lot of time watching you.
I urged her to go on.
Men, particularly older men, start wars because of their narcissism. Bubble number one is the place where they form a perception of how they are, or will be, perceived. They imagine they will be seen as the great victor, leader, saviour, empire-builder, avenger, or whatever. That view is reinforced by those in bubbles three, four and five, especially if the people in those bubbles are intimidated by their leader. The war-maker creates an image of himself that he then reinforces by intimidating, injuring or even killing, those who feedback the projection he puts to them.
He may also fool himself into thinking hundreds, thousands or millions of those in the wider bubbles will look upon him in his desired way. They may, but millions will not, said Octosocci, especially those in mourning. But the dictator has no interest in millions, or scores, or even eights. Only one matters to him, and he is that one. But he overlooks a fundamental truth. He will destroy the thing he values most. He will end his own life. We all do, regardless of what kills us. Ultimately our own body fails us irrespective of what may trigger that failure. When the narcissist dies, his bubble one mirror evaporates. Only he has seen himself that way, and that viewing will be over for ever.
The dictator’s image of himself is self-initiated and self- sustained, nourished by the fawning of his fan-base, which may or may not be projections of what they truly think, and hence therefore is only as genuine as he imagines it to be. It will die when he does, regardless of what he may choose to believe.
I understand what you are saying, I told Octosocci, but it doesn’t help me to put a stop to wars.
She twitched five legs. The web flexed.
If you wish to stop a war, it is the dictator’s bubble number one that you must burst.
That’s easier said than done, I told her.
Now all eight legs tensed, and the web stiffened. Her next comment made me think she may have been watching my television as much as she had been watching me. Or perhaps she had heard the radio in my Bani-shed.
You should not be rolling out red carpets for war-makers, unless the carpet is so coloured by spilt blood that is still wet and sticky. You should not shake hands with war-makers unless your paws are dripping with blood. You should cocoon fire-starters in acidic thread until they are ready to pupate into peace-seekers. And if they say they are, do not take their word for it. Concentrate on corroding the mirror of their ego.
I’m not sure that will work.
It will if you can achieve it, said Octosocci, your history has many examples. When a dictator sees his imagined likeness fade, he often cannot live with himself.
Yes, I said, thinking of at least one example, but how many others must suffer first?
You should realise that all the time your forebears spent fighting each other to make the world a better place for their children, would have been better spent making their children make better places for the world.
I’ve done my best, I told her. It’s other people’s children that worry me.
I wasn’t thinking of those you have fathered, she said, but those you have influenced. Your species is brutal.
I was tempted to snap the silk cable securing her web. You are a fine one to talk, I said.
I only kill to survive. As you do.
My sons are vegan, I told her.
I do not have that option, she said. I kill to live. How many of your war dead are cannibalised?
I sucked the scent of the injured conifers I had cut that morning. So, what you are saying, I said, is that I cannot easily end wars but may be able to stop them from starting?
You must foster the notion that violence is not just undesirable, it is stupid. It is primitive, uncouth, uncool. People who resort to violence must not be respected; they must be regarded as sub-standard. Those who relish watching it should be seen as perverted. Stop giving prizes for hitting people. The fist must be seen as inferior to the jaw. Convince your children to despise every instance of violence.
Strong men may view that attitude as weakness, I told her.
Strong women will not, she said.
I’m afraid my species is dominated by narcissistic men.
Keep talking to spiders, she said.
Influenced
I have been fortunate to have never experienced war. Sometimes a lesser tyranny lacerates our contentment. I have been at the heart of a conflict involving not the loss of life, but the loss of livelihoods. I escaped, or rather, was rescued. Some of my colleagues were not so fortunate. Those experiences influenced parts of Jyn & Tonic:
uneasywords 