Terror in the Impoverished Soul Triggers Terror on the Street

Rod is standing next to me, an empty green wine bottle clenched in his fist ready to explode into a million shards of glass shrapnel. His 6-foot-2-inch bulk coils and tightens; great gobs of saliva fly from his mouth as he spits obscenities at me. I am in the grip of sheer terror; adrenaline surges through my body, but it’s like a narcotic, reducing arms and legs to the consistency of overcooked pasta.

I get a lot out of my work in a Skid Row soup kitchen, but a sense of physical security or peaceful surroundings are not among the assets. Even on the calmest days the anger, violence and certifiable insanity are always there, lying inert like a land mine waiting to go off. But it did occur to me recently that living in this sort of war zone gives one an edge over those who have never dealt with terrorists.

Not that Rod is a terrorist in the political sense. He belongs to no organization, espouses no cause or ideology, has received no formal training or discipline and takes orders from no one. In fact, most of the time he functions in a fairly benign manner.

But today, for whatever reason--too long a wait in the soup line, no luck in finding a job, a bad night’s sleep in the alley--he has turned violent and I am his target.

Ever since the bombing of Libya last spring, we’ve heard terrorism described as a cancer that can be removed by the military equivalent of radical surgery. This is a simplistic solution that finds its domestic counterpart in the substitution of prisons and jails for a national commitment to jobs, education and housing for all. The real cause of terrorism, both domestic and foreign, is rooted in the injustice of poverty, hunger, homelessness and oppression.

I grew up in a placid Orange County cul-de-sac community that was the apotheosis of the American dream--secure against poverty and violence, perfect in its serenity. The reality of suffering on Skid Row shatters that placidity like a brick hurled through a window, offering a glimpse of the pain and suffering endured by most of the world.

From Rio to Calcutta, from Soweto to Santo Domingo, most of the world is engaged in a violent struggle merely to survive from one day to the next, and the terrorist is simply the most active combatant in this battle. The desire for security in our homes and our property is natural, but to ignore the reality of the suffering world is to live in a fantasy. How can we feel secure when children die of starvation, families are broken by economic and military violence, human lives and potential are sacrificed daily on the altar of economic necessity?

Flannery O’Connor, the brilliant literary mistress of the macabre, once wrote, “The only way some people can find God is through an experience of sheer terror.” It is at those moments of terror that I have learned the power of prayer, quick and furtive and repetitious--”Lord, deliver us from evil; Lord, deliver us from evil; Lord, deliver us from evil”--anesthetizing the brain, lowering the pulse rate, stiffening the rubbery limbs--prayer under fire, prayer in the trenches, practical prayer that reaches down to a place of strength that is beyond the fear. Pretend that no one can hear the pounding of your heart or smell the stink of your sweat. Get your voice under control, slowly reach out your hand. Now, standing before Rod, I hear my voice speaking with all the bluff and bravado of an animal trainer, pretending a calm that I do not feel, knowing that any hint of fear on my part will surely invite disaster. “Rod, give me the bottle and I’ll bring you a tray of food. Go on outside. You’re too agitated to eat in here today.”

“OK, punk, but be quick about it,” he says, handing me the bottle. I skillfully grasp the neck so as not to inadvertently release the imaginary arming mechanism and carefully drop it into the trash can, making a silent promise to be more vigilant about picking up such weapons when I see them lying about on the sidewalk.

This is not the first time that Rod has terrorized us. Once, after an epic struggle, we “banned” him for an entire year. I used to think that our method of dealing with terrorism--prayer and nonviolence--was hopelessly idealistic and impractical. Until I heard that a security guard in a similar Skid Row institution was murdered with his own gun after a struggle with an irate client. So much for the use of force. We figure that we might as well stick to our principles.

After Rod finishes eating, he is much calmer, almost affable, so I take the opportunity to tell him that he will be banned for a week because of the disturbance that he caused in the kitchen.

“The hell with you, punk, I don’t want your food anyway,” he says, turning on his heel and walking away.

I am fully aware that it is 1987, and that idealism as a basis of national policy is about as fashionable as bellbottom trousers and love beads, so I won’t even suggest prayer and nonviolence as a means of combating terrorism. I am convinced, however, that we cannot end it by bombing children in Libya, or by jailing the poor in our own nation. Any effective program to end terrorism must begin with a commitment to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and shelter the homeless.