Drip-Drip (The Oldest Story)

“Only a few generations prior, things seemed stable and peaceful. At first, a few came out of need; traversing the wilderness, crossing the border. Ecological disaster and economic collapse had made them hungry and desperate, seeking new opportunity. Soon, they were deemed useful and encouraged to immigrate, to settle, to integrate. They learned the language, adjusted their customs and clothing. They belonged.

They worked hard and thrived. It wasn’t easy in the beginning, it never is. Through grit, they proved themselves true patriots. They did the dirty jobs the native population had little interest in; they made themselves indispensable. That is what their community leaders told them.

They thought back on the first one, the heroic one. He had risen through the ranks of the administrative state and had represented them well. The stories still instilled communal pride and collective confidence. Like him, they became socially mobile, held increasingly higher office. Wasn’t this a magnificent story of success and loyalty, of determination and creativity? Their population grew, but there was no cause for concern. They were part of the nation, now. Out of many, one.

Out of many, one.

Surely, their contributions would not be forgotten.

But there arose a new ruler. He was not like the other rulers. He was sly and cruel. He talked about the nation in new ways; not as ‘out of many one’, but as a place only fit for ‘those of true heritage.’ He didn’t care about the fact that they kept the economy going. That their children went to school, spoke the language, made friends, got married… and had more children. The rhetoric ramped up. All of a sudden, there were whispers and questions. What does this mean? Are we still safe? The communal leaders assured that they were. If they continued to be good patriots, to serve the nation, to carry out their duties with pride, then that would be enough. The communal leaders in high places looked with hope to the new ruler in the land. He would remember. Of course he would.

He did not remember. He chose not to remember, not to know. More and more divisiveness spilled out from the mouths of officials into the streets, into the houses of worship, into private homes. Who were these people? There were too many of them. The borders should be sealed; they should leave; they are taking away our jobs; they are a burden on our economy. There are too many of them.

The nation started believing it. When food prices shot up, askance glances were made, neighbors judged their neighbors. A word in the immigrants’ tongue was regarded with suspicion. They told their children to be careful; they cautioned each other to become a bit more quiet, a bit less proud, not to leave the house unless necessary. It’s funny how these things go. Slowly, drip-drip, until you stop noticing the drips.

There were worried conversations at kitchen tables. Is it going to get worse? Can our leaders do anything? Should we collaborate? Should way stay? Should we leave? It is a kind of confusion that seeps into everything. How you tend your garden, how you show up for work and how you tuck in your kids at night; a small, ever-present tremor of a fearful heart. We belong, right? Maybe we belong less than we thought. Drip-drip.

The new ruler blamed them for everything. He called them enemies; a fifth column, infiltrators, parasites. The communal leaders tried harder; pleaded with him; we are loyal and faithful, sir, they said. We are here to make this great nation truly great. Their pleas fell on deaf ears.

The borders were closed. Citizenship was stripped. They were rounded up. Deported. One measure crueller than the other. Drip-drip. Children were afraid to sleep at night, fearing the knock at their door, the enforcers who came to their school, who prowled their streets. Parents hurried to the market to get their groceries, quickening their furtive pace.

The decree was issued. They came for the children. For the babies. The newborn.

Drip-drip.

Thankfully, there were brave and good people. Women. We listen to a Higher Power, they whispered, we heed a Deeper Truth. We will not comply. We stand with our neighbors. We stand with the families in our street, our co-workers at work, our fellows. No qualifications necessary. They protected the children. If they come for the babies, they come for us.

Some of those women were immigrants. Others native born. It wasn’t clear, and according to the beating heart of all that is good and true, it did not matter. They worked quickly and quietly, – drip-drip – through networks, with hands that healed and arms that held. They protested loudly, – drip-drip – placed their bodies on the line, with hearts that refused to give way, and feet that stood firm. They gathered many and voiced more.

They lived their truth. And they died for it.”

Through their bravery, we tell this story.

Through their resilience, we learn these truths.

Through their resistance, we speak for those who have no voice.

They are our teachers, through every age and every place.

We are their students. For justice, for love, for democracy, for humanity.

In the Name of that Higher Power and Deeper Truth.