Homer in the Gaza Strip

The villainy you teach me, I will undertake, and it will be hard, but I will surpass the teaching.

W. Shakespeare (The Merchant of Venice; Act III, Scene I)

On Sunday, October 15, in Chicago, a man stabbed a six-year-old boy and seriously injured the child's mother because they were Muslims. The authorities stated that the attack was motivated by events in Israel and Gaza. On the same day, António Guterres, Secretary-General of the United Nations, said: "At this dramatic moment, when we stand on the brink of the abyss in the Middle East, it is my duty as Secretary-General of the United Nations to make two strong humanitarian appeals. To Hamas, the immediate and unconditional release of the hostages. To Israel, the granting of rapid and unhindered access to humanitarian aid to deliver humanitarian supplies and workers to help civilians in Gaza. Each of these two goals is valid in itself. They should not become bargaining chips and should be applied simply because it is the right thing to do."

The right thing to do: This is the basic moral imperative, now and always. As we have known since the dawn of time, war brings suffering to everyone caused by a blind hatred of the other and a thirst for revenge. In the war, both sides uttered the amoral cry that General Millán-Astray, founder of the Legion, shouted at Unamuno: "Long live death!" Therein lies our collective suicide.

In the midst of so much irrationality, there are no practical solutions. Literature, however, could offer a redemptive example. The Iliad begins notoriously acknowledging the anger that fuels murderous violence: "Mênin aeide, théa, Peleiadeo Achilleos." "Sing, O goddess, the wrath of Peleus Achilles" is a more or less literal version of the first line of the poem. But what did Homer mean by these words?

As readers, we know that we can intuit the meaning of a poetic truth, no matter how ancient. For example, in 1990, the Colombian Ministry of Culture created a system of traveling libraries to bring books to people in remote rural regions. To do this, sacks of books with large pockets were transported on the backs of donkeys to the jungle and the mountains. There they left the books for several weeks in the hands of a teacher or village elder who became, de facto, the librarian in charge. Most of the books were technical works, agricultural manuals, collections of sewing patterns, and the like, but some literary works were also included. According to one librarian, the books were always safe. "I know of only one case where a book has not been returned," he says. "We had taken with us, along with the usual practical titles, a Spanish translation of the Iliad. When it came time to change the book, the villagers refused to return it. We decided to give it to them, but we asked them why they wanted to keep that particular title. They explained to us that Homer's story mirrored their own: it told of a war-torn country where mad gods mingle with men and women who never know exactly what the fight is about, or when they will be happy, or why they will be killed."

Perhaps the Iliad, a poem about the horrors and suffering of war, can offer a few words in response to António Guterres' plea. In the final book of the Iliad, Achilles, who has murdered Hector, who in turn has murdered Patroclus, Achilles' dear friend, agrees to receive Hector's father, King Priam, who comes to ask to be allowed to retrieve his son's body. It's one of the most moving and shocking scenes I know. Suddenly, there is no difference between victim and victor, between old and young, between father and son. Priam's words awaken in Achilles "a deep desire to weep for his own father," and with great tenderness he pushes away the hand that the old man has stretched out to bring to his lips the hands of his son's murderer:

"And dominated by memory

Both men surrendered to the pain. Priam wept

for his son Hector, throbbing and defeated

at the feet of Achilles, while Achilles wept,

now for his father, now again for Patroclus,

and the sobs of both could be heard throughout the room."

Finally, Achilles tells Priam that they must both "let their sorrows be brought down in their own hearts." For Achilles, and for Priam, and for the Colombian peasants, and for the victims on both sides of the tragedy in Israel and Gaza, this could be, however small, a consolation.

Alberto Manguel is a writer.

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