PATCHWORK PIECES

Otago Witness, Issue 3867, 24 April 1928, Page 75

PATCHWORK PIECES

By

Eileen Service.

(Special for the Otago Witness.)

XLVII.-WAR.

The word “ War ” stabs like a spearpoint into the heart of a woman. She trembles and pales at the long, heavy sound of it, and wrings her hands as she thinks of all it means. The horror of rumour; the menace of distant guns; the sickening excitement which accompanies fear; the news that her man is leaving to fight; the false calm with which she farewells him; the reaction of passionate grief ; the agony while she waits for his letters; the pain, keen beyond description, caused by joy or sorrow when his ultimate fate is announced to her —this is a little of what she imagines when the word is spoken and the spearpoint strikes home.

She would not keep him back, this son, this lover, this husband of hers. Loyalty to country is greater than love of possession, and at the call to arms she is ready and willing to speed him on his way. Nor does she regret her renunciation after she is left alone and there is nothing before her but months of waiting during which every new sound can startle ana bring dread to her eyes. Even is she able to bear the greatest test of all, the realisation that he is one of those who have been called upon to give up life itself, and will never return to her. She sees that his duty was first to his country, and she accepts as just whatever that country demands. And yet, in spite of this resignation, this splendid tolerance and self-sacrifice, she cannot help but ask as she looks about her:

“ But why ? Why ? What was the use of it ? Why did it happen ?” Her questions do not concern her personal feelings, but go out wider until they cover the whole business of War. What troubles her is not the fact that, being forced to fight, her country has demanded that she give up her man, but that her country ever had to make such a demand upon her. “ Why is War? ” is her cry. War—that pitting of force against force, that triumph of might over weakness, that dependence upon the strength of the physical man to win a victorycan this be necessary between nations ? Can such measures, so drastic and cruel, bring any satisfaction? Is there no other way ? But how can there be another way ? If a ruffian burst into the home of a saint and prepared to slay his household, would the saint do anything else but fight? Would not, indeed, such fighting be the only right course for him to follow? So with War. When one country prepares to violate the rights of another, the offended is bound to retaliate. There is no alternative.

The woman sees this and accepts it courageously. But she is not convinced that such is the answer to her question. It goes deeper than that. War—a desire to conquer, a lust for battle, a longing to kill— what has set these wishes into action ? What has been their first cause? She imagines the aggressors—the commandeis behind the lines, the soldiers fighting, the civilians in the towns. On all their faces, in varying degrees of intensity, is one expression, fierce and terrible. She recognises it with blanching cheeks. It is Hate.

Hate, only Hate, that emotion which she herself may have known in one of its milder forms! She shudders as she realises its power. If thig is the first cause, then War in its violence is only its logical outcome. The fact is obvious. But here, there comes to her* a memory of streets where the manhood of the nation once thronged in happiness, and which are now silent and empty. For the sake of this memory she sends her thoughts further and faces the question again. If War, brutal, callous, senseless, would be stopped, its first cause must be removed. She knows now that this is Hate. But how can one remove Hate? Not by force—such only aggravates it. But by some means which will make it turn hackwards and unawares devour itself.

Hate thinks separative!}’. Hate says: “I am I; you are you. I am one nation ; you are another. I would crush you because your power challenges mine. You are my enemy.” Hate must be taught to say:. We are one world. I am a nation and you are a nation. We are both part of the world, even as the roots and the boughs are part of a tree. Because we are one, your power reflects on me and benefits me. It would be madness for me to spoil it. You are my brother.” There would never be anv War if Hate would speak like this. There would be no separativeness anywhere. Of its own accord it would recoil and demolish itself. For—and here is the great secret—Hate would be no longer Hate, but Love.

On this coming Anzac Day every woman will experience in some measure the stab of the spearpoint in her heart. She whose man was one of those who adventured on Gallipoli will feel it most sharply. She who, 13 years ago. was too young to realise things, will suffer it through her imagination. Sorrow for those who are gone and. pride that they should have djed so gloriously will be intermingled. There will be nobody entirelv unmoved. But may no woman, either old or young, be content that day merely with memory and emotion! There is a saving that the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. It is greatlv true. fo r what is taught tn a child in his early years determines his future outlook.' ' To quote

again, “ The child is father to the man.” But the woman is mother to both. Therefore, on Anzac Day, may every mother of men and every mother to be realise her power to make the world what she pleases, and, knowing the first cause ot War to be Hate, of which th 7 only rival is Love, determine to sow thp seeds of amity, brotherhood, and unity so resolutely that their harvest will be foundover all the world. Only so will the prophecy at last come true: There shall be no more War.