From Pakistan to Saudi Arabia, they rage. For decades, they say, America has interfered with their religion, their money, and their rulers. Sometimes, we run away. Often, we get involved with covert military actions. But lately, we've been preparing for all out war.
This sort of international politics presents a deep quandary for Black Americans. I realised that when I saw Colin Powell being burned in effigy on the streets of Pakistan. They didn't think of him as a Black man, a Negro. They certainly didn't see him as a son of Africa.
He was an American pressing American policies on a people who are sick of our policies and our representatives. They don't identify with him, but I see some of my father in their rage. I imagine ten thousand Pakistanis for every one that stands in protest. I imagine these men and women sitting in their houses feeling impotent and seeing America as their enemy. I see them wanting a world that is forever denied them.
They are living in poverty in a nation surrounded by enemies. They are a people who want to realise their dreams in a world that vies to control their every thought. They hate me. I wish that this hatred would disappear, in just the same way that White America felt about my father's hatred.
I find myself oddly in the position that whites found themselves in regard to my father's generation. Here I am feeling no enmity toward a people who hate me. They celebrate when I am attacked and damaged. They pray for my downfall.
| An excerpt from Walter Mosley's recent essay, titled "A perspective
on injustice" in Index for Free Expression
posted in articles on August 1, 2003 3:44 AM | t (0)
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