The bash of civilizations
I’m not a pessimist. Nor could I, even arguably, be labeled an optimist…. let alone a realist. I believe there are as many futures as there are people, and that every breathing second opens new avenues, both toward, and away from conflict. At peril of coming across as very Star Trek I also propose that with every moment of choice, of split probability -manmade or otherwise-, on a meta-dimensional level, the universe branches off lock, stock and barrel, adding to an infinity of realities. None of which, as you may have gathered, are visible to the naked ape. The timeline of our cherished universe, from big bang to free refills at Starbucks, should in other words be seen as less “line” and more “majestic tree”. Perhaps mankind will one day devise tunnels between the various twigs, and each individual can find a realm to his or her liking, but until that blissful day we are pretty much stuck with “Baby, life’s what you make it” to quote gloom-ridden eighties pop sensation Talk Talk.
What’s my point, Walter? I guess I’m taking issue, in my own convoluted manner, with the proven notion that civilizations clash. To the best of my knowledge they have always done exactly that. So much for groundbreaking ideas. Indeed, picking fights with one’s neighbor over scarce wooly mammoths, pillage and rape were once a predominant and acceptable means of social interaction. In many ways, from the moment we proudly donned the mantle of civilization, too little has changed. Beneath the veneer, the fake fur if you will, the animal world of bared fangs and tenuous survival still haunts our dreams, teeth gnashing, digesting a raucous past. The merest trifle, say; three days without food, or prolonged unemployment, can set the most gentle stamp collector to go postal. No one is immune to this virus that’s embedded like lazy journalism in our DNA, however much we like to kid ourselves it only applies to crazy Yugoslavs, Rwandans, Cambodians or sanctioned-by-God-Himself extremists. So much for how things “are”.
Is there, in our possessed beds, a place for “should”? Love thy enemy has throughout history been viewed a luxury, if not downright folly. Consequences of a clash with the next village have been unpleasant, indeed rather nasty, but never to the point where people figured mass-excursions into violence could, let alone should be avoided altogether. The invention of the city-state, and grand-monument-loving civilizations upped the ante. Fighting then invariably meant shedding rivers of blood, but also a chance to obtain big loot, adding territory, and paragraphs, even entire chapters to future history books.
The first substantial question marks to the practice began hovering over their respective dots in 1918, and again, more forcibly, in 1945. Should, and could we escape this horrible destiny? Kennedy launched perhaps the most potent metaphor in answer to that question by putting a man on the moon. The space race was a product of a clash that almost happened while producing the tools needed to transcend our cradle mentally, if not physically; to wrench our instinct toward something better. Let’s have a bash of civilizations. Walls will fall. There are no fifth columns, just people seeking to live their lives, and they will choose right if we choose to let them.
I’d put my money on global mayhem if there were anything left to buy after World War III. Much to the chagrin of my booky. But we have no choice. We build bridges or die off as a race. We have to do what’s unnatural to our race. Fear helped us survive the jungles of our forefathers, but, with all natural predators vested, has become our worst enemy. It’s a historic singularity, a crossroads between the stars and extinction. A finite moment of choice.