Ceremony of Innocence: Tears, Power and Protest PDF
Preview Ceremony of Innocence: Tears, Power and Protest
CEREMONY OF INNOCENCE Ceremony of Innocence Tears, Power and Protest Kay Carmichael Consultant Editor Jo Campling M MACMILLAN ©Kay Cannichael1991 Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 1991 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without prior permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 33-4 Alfred Place, London WClE 7DP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. First published 1991 Published by MACMILLAN ACADEMIC AND PROFESSIONAL LT O Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 2XS and London Companies and representatives throughout the world Filmset by Wearside Tradespools, Fulwell, Sunderland British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Carmichael, Kay Ceremony of innocence : tears, power and protest. 1. Man. Role of crying in communication I. Title 152.4 ISBN 978-0-333-53997-2 ISBN 978-1-349-21510-2 (eBook) DOI 10.1007/978-1-349-21510-2 To my tutors in pain Contents Acknowledgements viii Prologue 1 1 Introduction 6 2 The Functions of Tears, Crying and Weeping 11 3 Boys, Men and Tears 44 4 Women and Tears 61 5 People, Tears and Institutions 80 6 Tears and Grief 107 7 Tears and Religion 129 8 Tears and Health 138 9 The Tears of Existence 155 10 Tears, Power and Protest 167 11 Conclusions 184 Epilogue 190 References 196 Bibliography 199 Index of People and Places 201 vii Acknowledgements No book is ever written by one person alone. The most important contributors to this one have been the women and men who have given me permission to describe the pain which for many of them had lain hidden for years at the heart of their lives. Sometimes the same story was told by a number of people, only the words used varied. I have asked permission to quote each person whose words I have used. My thanks go also to the specialists of various disciplines whom I approached for advice and guidance. After initial surprise that anyone should be seriously interested in a subject like tears, they could not have been more helpful. Jo Campling, Frances Condick and Belinda Dutton have proved a model combination of profes sionalism and caring. While writing the book I was surrounded by loving support from a number of people, each of whom made a different contribution to its development: Sheena Carmichael who revived my spirit whenever it flagged; David Donnison who tried to teach me how to write in paragraphs, an art which still eludes me; David Brandon, my favourite Buddhist monk and story-teller; Susan Singerman who has taught me so much about survivors; Duncan Forrester of New College; David and Christine Martin, Larry Butler and Mary Troup. Each of them has enriched the book. I owe an intellectual debt to Professor Silvan Tomkins from whose thinking I borrowed heavily, and a debt for which there are no easy words to Cam Macdonald, beloved physician, friend and teacher who was so generous with his time and knowledge. Those of you who read as far as the epilogue will appreciate the remarkable contribution to my understanding of the power of tears, and to my life made by the Reverend Usami of the Kemboko Temple. I would also like to thank the Sasakawa Foundation for their help in making my journey to Japan possible. Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to quote from the following works: 'The Second Coming' by W. B. Yeats from Selected Poetry (ed. A. N. Jeffares) (London: Macmillan, 1962); 'On the day my mind stopped breathing', and 'Cuckoo' from Journeys of Nothing in the Land of Everything by Edward Matchett (London: Turnstone Books, 1975); 'The Box' from The Barbarian File by viii Acknowledgements ix Christopher Wiseman (Windsor, Ontario: 1974); 'little Gidding' from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot in The Complete Poems and Plays of T. S. Eliot (London: Faber and Faber, 1969); and Henry Holt and Co., Inc. for an extract from 'Rendezvous' from Mink Coat by Jill Hoffmann (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969). Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; W. B. Yeats Prologue Some years ago I visited a transit camp for refugees from Vietnam in Hong Kong. To reach it we had driven through a raucous, lively area of that town which vibrates with vitality. Suddenly turning into a narrow dusty lane, we arrived in a different world. An old army barracks, cut off from the town by a wire fence topped with barbed wire, lay ahead. It was a massive four-storey, grey, rec tangular building surrounded by a concrete pathway and divided along its length by fetid drains. 200 families lived here in primitive conditions, looked after by a tiny group of devoted but often helpless paid staff, and some voluntary workers. The Vietnamese waited patiently but often unrealistically for opportunities to enter countries which would give them the chance to work and make new lives for themselves and their children. There were few adults about, most of them officials, and some apparently aimless children. One small girl was standing by herself outside the security guard's hut, weeping bitterly. She looked to be about three years of age. Her nose was running, her mouth was open, deep sobs racked her body and no one took the slightest notice of her. She was a scrap of humanity in deepest misery and as far as the adults in her environment were concerned, she might as well not have existed. Yet her whole self was in despair and no one moved towards her. I found her pain intolerable, ultimately moved towards her while asking our guide to explain why she was crying, at which she was picked up and hurried off. When I next saw her she was still weeping, though more quietly now and being dragged along reluctantly by a small boy of about six who had clearly been charged with the care of her. That night I woke up weeping and was forced to confront yet again the pain I had carried with me for over half a century ... the pain of the uncomforted child. I was crying for myself and not for her. I had known, looking at her, exactly what she was feeling. The differences in our ages, the different colour of our skins, or the shape of our eyes, our different interpretations of the sounds that make words, all these were irrelevant. We were two creatures linked by a special kind of pain. Not only us. Everyone for whom that experience has gone on too long knows exactly what I mean. For them, what in most people's lives is a temporary hurt has 1
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