The Gate by Simone Weil

The Gate 

Open the gate for us, and we shall see the orchards.

We shall drink cold water where the moon has left its trace.

The long road is burning and hostile to the strangers.

We err without knowing and we never find our place.

We want to see the flowers. Here the thirst is upon us.

Waiting and suffering, here we are before the gate.

If we must, we shall break down this gate with all our blows.

We’ll press and then we’ll push; but this barrier is too great.

We must languish and wait and we must keep watch in vain.

We look upon the gate; it is closed and too heavy.

We fix our eyes on it; we weep under the torment.

We keep it in our view; we’re crushed by time’s gravity.

The gate is before us; what’s the use of our desire?

It is better to leave and to give up on all hope.

We shall never get in. Watching it has made us tired.

So much silence came out when the gate was once opened

That neither the orchards nor the flowers have appeared;

Only the immense space of the void and of the light,

Which then became present and that overwhelmed the heart,

And bathed our eyes at last, almost blinded by the dust. 

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For the last few years, every Sunday began with poetry for me. Every Sunday, nearly a dozen people from all over the world, from different walks of life, would come online on Zoom to read and reflect on a poem. Poems sans borders. Poems that are and cannot be limited by language, culture or nationality. Every week, like modern seances, we would sit with a poem and meditate on its nuances. Some poems are direct and deceptively simple, while some are slippery and elusive. But there are some others that would pull us out of our comfort zones, out of our walled gardens or boxes, to ponder the worlds beyond our sensory grip. We zoomed in on a Gate on the latest edition of our ‘Chunk of Poetry’. ‘The Gate’ by Simone Weil. And ‘The Gate’ opens into a world that is timeless and all too familiar to all who read it. 

Simone Weil was a French philosopher, political activist, and mystic. She was born in 1909 in Paris into a wealthy Jewish family and died in 1943. In her 34 years of living, she crossed the worlds of human suffering, social justice and spirituality. She made it her mission to become the voice of the marginalised and resist the war machines of fascism and totalitarianism. Her political activism took her to factories, farms and refugee camps where she saw and perhaps helped open many gates of struggle, resistance and liberty for the common folk. But, in her career as an activist and through her writings, we can see that compassion was the force that guided her in her actions. It was an original and simple act of having concern for fellow beings. Here, we should understand that in her 34 years of living, she experienced two devastating World Wars and unspeakable crimes against life. She was witness to barbarity. She was subject to hatred. And yet, though it was easy to give in to hate and respond with violence, she chose to have concern. To arm herself with compassion and solidarity. But this does not mean she was immune to all the darkness surrounding her and her times. She, too, waged war with her own demons as she searched for meaning in a world that often crashed down onto her as alien, indifferent and too self-centred. Perhaps this is why she always strove for empathy and a genuine understanding of the world and her fellow humans. She has also explored various religious traditions in her attempt to make sense of a world going utterly senseless. 

The poem here opens by speaking about a Gate beyond which lies a land far removed from the injustice, fear, suspicion, oppression or hatred that defines the dominant realities. Beyond this gate are the orchards and the cold waters graced by the touch of the moon. Beyond this gate, there is a land that is kind and gentle to strangers, where everyone is sure to find their place. And before that mighty gate, these strangers, but travellers of the same road nonetheless, await to witness the bloom of flowers that could bear seeds of their hope. But, despite all the longing and deep desire to cross the Gate and into that ‘paradise’, their Gate of redemption remains tightly shut, leaving the travellers to suffer the very fate they’ve been running away from. 

They were migrants who were fleeing hunger, and they hoped for an orchard beyond that Gate. They were travellers lost in the road, scorched, parched and tired of polluted, toxic streams, and so dreamt of the cool, serene moon-kissed waters they shall drink from. They are refugees seeking mercy and shelter. They are also pilgrims, lost in themselves, now searching for themselves or something else. And so, the travellers are many, and so are their desires. They flock outside the impossible Gate; at first, they rejoice at its sight, and then they prey as they gently knock. As time goes by with no sight of a gatekeeper or the click of the hidden locks, they lose patience, and prayers give way to protest. Gentle taps on the gate become poundings, and joy reverts to anguish. They’ve waited for long and suffered all along, and now, all that stands between them and the life they dream of, in desperate need of, is this gate, colossal or puny, made of heavenly metals or simple plain wood. Now, the impatient mass raises their arms, ready to push or press the gate to submission, find their way to freedom, fight if they must, and finally claim their piece of paradise. But they realise they are no match for this barrier. Thus, they fall into despair, and nothing’s left to be done. Now, they begin their watch and scatter within to find that ember of hope, courage, or even grief that carried them to that gate against all odds. To see if they could keep it alive for a little longer until the gate opens their paradise. Till the moment they could enter and fulfil their desires. But time is the ruler of this realm, and time alone prevails. So even the champions of the many, the best of the best, begins to falter. Everyone now feels the heaviness of the gate. Now they have no choice but to ask, What is the point of all this? Desire and hope! 

And at that precise moment of utter and complete hopelessness, as their desires were simply crushed under the weight of that immovable gate, it flung open. But inside the gate, it was not quite what they were expecting. There were neither orchards to satiate their hunger nor moon-touched waters to quench their thirst. There, they walked into a vastness of silence. A space of nothing but light. And in that silence, as their hearts are now unburdened of many desires and shone by the light, they were beginning to feel the presence of the present moment. At that moment, they realised the Gate had now opened to their homes. And this is the test of resilience, of faith, the ultimate key that could open the Gate when it’s time.  

But what exactly is this gate? And where would one have to look for it? This is the question that the poem ultimately leads us to. One thought makes me see how fascinating and miraculous humans are in many ways. We are so full of opposites, ironies, and complete disjunctures, yet we find ways to get along, survive, hold on if possible, and move on if necessary. And what enables us to be this resilient, or even defiant, is our ability to conceive and conjure ‘Gates’ that could either glimpse us on the path forward or portal us off altogether. Now, the important feature of this gate is that it is unique for every individual. One cannot see or cross the gate of another. And every desire, emotion, passion, or dream conjures a new gate. And so, in that sense, we live in a world of countless gates to our many paradise, visible only to us. Some to escape, some to live in, some to cherish, and some to hide.

This reminds me of a beautiful Italian movie I recently watched, Life is Beautiful. This Italian comedy-drama is set in Fascist Italy and narrates the story of Guido Orefice, a Jewish Italian bookshop owner and his family and how he navigates through the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp. In the movie, comical and witty Guido and his family are taken to a concentration camp, where Guido and his wife are separated during the internment. But his son stays with him along with other Jewish prisoners. But, a witty Guido then opens a ‘Gate’ of imagination for his son to shield and hide the child from the nightmares of the real world. He convinces his son Giosue that they are in for a game and that he must perform tasks to win a tank. And so, even amidst the mounts of dead bodies and the horrors of the gas chambers or the hard labour he had to endure, Guido made sure that his son continued to ‘play’ this game by doing tasks like hiding from camp guards, staying silent, not crying, or not complaining. And he maintained this act until his very last, just so his son would find the courage to look for the sunshine awaiting him beyond that gate. Here, it’s not just the gate that Guido crafted for his son but also the one he found for himself, one of his love for his wife and son. He used his humour to prepare that gate through which he saw the beauty of life and its simplicity and, most importantly, taught his son the greatest lesson a father could ever teach. The movie ends when an American Sherman tank rolls into the camp, breaking the iron gate of Nazism that has, until then, imprisoned those human lives. At that moment, after seeing that tank, another gate was opened for Giosue; he had won the game he was playing with his father. 

This is just one story, one perspective. The gate in the poem also alludes to every religion that promises a world and life beyond the one we have here, now, on this pale blue dot. And people do all sorts of things, from random acts of kindness to those utterly diabolical, for the gate to remain open for them to enter when the time comes. The desire for a luxurious afterlife drives their madness, ritualistic or systemic. And people happily blow up themselves or others, erect monuments or demolish history, and do and speak all things unholy, all for the sake of a ticket beyond that holy gate. 

The need for a ‘gate’, at least a desperate and completely fictitious idea of one, is intrinsic to human existence. Our whole life is just a trip from one gate to another and then to another. When one gate opens, we immediately begin our search for another. Suddenly, an orchard becomes insufficient as we start looking for variety. And so we continue our tryst with gates and whatever courtyards, palaces, shacks or doors we find inside. But, none ever satisfies. So, what is all this about? I think it is a test of humanity. I believe these ever-repeating patterns reveal our hubris and the need for humility, compassion and patience. With oneself and the world. And when one finally understands this principle, that there is no gate, that all that we have conjured out of thin air are but mirages, then without any of our exaggerations or embellishments, without any grandeur or divinity, a breeze that carries the trace of the moon from the cold waters would fill our hearts. In that moment of calm, we find our Gate open and ready for us. To enter and embrace the now. Heaven and hell have the same gate, but whoever remembers his breath shall not err and lose his place. And gates, what do gates do? They just open! 

    - Harishna M U

This is How Memory Works by Patricia Hampl

This is How Memory Works

You are stepping off a train.

A wet blank night, the smell of cinders.

A gust of steam from the engine swirls

around the hem of your topcoat, around

the hand holding the brown leather valise,

the hand that, a moment ago, slicked back

the hair and then put on the fedora

in front of the mirror with the beveled

edges in the cherrywood compartment.

The girl standing on the platform

in the Forties dress

has curled her hair, she has

nylon stockings - no, silk stockings still.

Her shoulders are touchingly military,

squared by those shoulder pads

and a sweet faith in the Allies.

She is waiting for you.

She can be wearing a hat, if you like.

You see her first.

that's part of the beauty:

you get the pure, eager face,

the lyrical dress, the surprise.

You can have the steam,

the crowded depot, the camel's-hair coat,

real leather and brass clasps on the suitcase;

you can make the lights glow with

strange significance, and the black cars

that pass you are historical yet ordinary.

The girl is yours,

the flowery dress, the walk

to the streetcar, a fried egg sandwich

and a joke about Mussolini.

You can have it all:

you're in that world, the only way

you'll ever be there now, hired

for your silent hammer, to nail pictures

to the walls of this mansion

made of thinnest air.

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Today our CoP was all about memory (ies). We were all diving into the many layers of how we perceive and experience memory. We talked about how memories remain elemental to our sense of being. How it corrupts, is corrupted, and remains corrupt. And how we use this capricious piece of cognitive abstraction to bring meaning to our lives. And before I could listen to all I had to leave the session early to attend the commemoration of Shri. Chembur Sukumaran Nair, a teacher, writer and from what I understood, a wonderful friend to all he had touched. I never knew the man, except that he's the father of Aravindan sir. But when I reached the venue of commemoration, and as I listened to all those people remembering him, I realised I was indeed attending an extension of our virtual CoP session. Now I was listening to the memories of people; friends, colleagues, family, and students. They were all remembering a man, who I don't think was a saint, but an ordinary man who cared enough to make his every gesture a saintly touch that left indelible imprints on lives. And what more could make a life meaningful than this? And it made me think, contrary to what I felt was the dominating thought of this morning, that memories are but false constructs that our minds conjure from the thinnest air to add and omit layers to our reality, memories could be real. Sure, a memory may undergo wear and tear over the years, but I believe its kernel remains the same nonetheless. A memory retains its originality in its nuances, which will resist any attempt to corrupt its essence. I think it is this resistance of our memories to preserve their integrity that keeps us alive rather than the memory itself. After all, it is the anchor that holds us together, in place, offering us a choice between life and oblivion. 

    - Harishna 

When the Shipwrecked Traveler by Benjamin Fondane

When the Shipwrecked Traveller

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When the shipwrecked traveller

came at last to the island, having saved

his toothbrush, pipe, liver trouble and

an old disbelief in miracles from the waves,

time dissolved suddenly like the snowpack,

silence suddenly crackled everywhere,

the traveller’s blood became light

and drunk so drunk and so light that he went

into things and things went

into him in an incandescent thirst so vivid

that his sight stumbled amongst visions,

suffered vertigo, such strong hallucinations,

ecstasies and revelations

so clear, that he became afraid of himself, of becoming

a spider, or a wild strawberry –

so afraid that he threw himself to his knees, praying

to his god who was too great to do miracles,

and let himself fall from a cliff into the sea

just an instant before

he would have received the gift of prophecy.

- Benjamin Fondane

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The image of Jesus Christ from the Last Temptation came to me as I read this poem for the first time. A frail little man, torn between the shades of life. The story of the son of a man. The story of the son of God. The story of his struggles between the spirit and the flesh. The story about war and peace in his lifetime. 

After a lifetime of 45 years across borders, Benjamin Fondane died in a concentration camp in 1944, perhaps just an instant before he would have received the gift of liberation. 

This poem is about a shipwrecked traveller and his struggles between the spirit and the flesh as he finds himself on the island. Not any random island but "the island". Now who is this traveller, and what or where could this island be? The traveller could be any one of us because life is, after all, a journey. A journey without a beginning or an end. It is said that we are made of stardust, that the ingredients in our bodies once formed the hearts of a billion stars or more across billions of years. And this mixture of atoms from across the universe underwent a process of constant assemblage and disintegration until this fleeting moment, where it fused together to give us this form and material for our physical existence. And here we are, a mould of stardust from across infinite lifetimes, cruising to a day when we disintegrate to give form to something else. Maybe another star or a spider or a wild strawberry, but the journey continues. 

On reading this poem on a larger canvas of our existence, I take that the island referred to is our lives. This mundane, earthly, often redundant experience of daily life. And no matter how far or how fast one tries to run away from it or how long one wrestles with the waves in search of something better or something extraordinary somewhere else, far away from the crushing ordinariness of our lives, the fundamental principle of life is that no one gets out of it alive. But, our inability or even recalcitrance to comprehend this simple truth often throws us off course, as we inevitably get washed ashore (maybe on a different shore), on this island, like a shipwrecked traveller.     

Here, I see the traveller in the poem as someone who kept running for a long time. He was possibly running away to save his madness from this chaotic world. Or he was probably fleeing from those who wanted to conform him to their madness. Or he was just another man who longed to find a place for himself in this often unforgiving world. A man who was in a constant search for his meaning. But now, this poem narrates the last time he got washed ashore. This is what we may call the precipice of living, with nowhere left to run, no ocean left to cross, the defining moment which could either push one into insanity or open their mind to the truth of living, into the beauty of the ordinary that they have always overlooked. The last temptation; take a leap of faith in either direction. 

Now that he is at the precipice, he would be experiencing an epiphany of his whole life. A man: after years of running, hiding and fighting, who has reasons to not believe in anything anymore, has the quintessence of his life revealed at that moment of utter hopelessness. And so, time dissolved suddenly like the snowpack, and silence crackled everywhere. This was him, a simple man, opening up to the elements of creation. The atoms in his body would have begun to speak to him in the crackling silence, in a space beyond time, about the truth he so long sought. The burning thirst for the truth despite being so simple and obvious. Something that even he had not known to exist until then. Can this be the moment of enlightenment? Where the eyes would lose sight simply by the ecstatic beauty that unfolds. The hearts of a billion stars that slept in his atoms would have throbbed all at once. A shipwrecked traveller on an island now felt the light of creation coursing through him. 

As I said, it is a precipice. The experience of witnessing himself stripped bare to reveal his essence would have been bewildering for the poor soul. And so, he became afraid of himself. Nothing terrifies a man more than seeing himself for who he truly is. But it is the necessary catharsis, like a rite of passage. And so he stumbled, clueless, afraid, like a child, he wept. The truth is always as simple as a feather, but it can crush a mountain if not ready. And so, he melted at the sight of his own glory. For now, he has seen where he comes from and where he passes to. But the ever-rebellious human in him was still unwilling to let go and wanted to cling to this human form despite realising its ephemerality. The war raged on within him between his spirit and the flesh. Finally, he threw himself to his knees and surrendered to his God, his spirit now hoping for a miracle, a deliverance. But the flesh, in its hubris, chose to take a leap off the cliff for one last time, perhaps hoping that now it would wake up from this dream into the world it once knew. Now, isn't that too a leap of faith? I don't know!

As I conclude my reading of this remarkable poem, a few questions remain, as the residual effect of the time we live in. As we often experience, it is getting quite difficult to find peace or calm or even beauty around us, within us. The days can get overwhelming, and we lose faith in everything, abandoning hope. We are all shipwrecked travellers, one way or the other. Only our stories slightly differ. We are either fleeing from or searching for something, but the net result is us left stranded on these islands, exhausted. So I wonder; What do we truly desire? What are we truly looking for? What is the meaning of this search? Who/What/Why is God? What is a miracle? I'll pause now. And I hope there are no universal answers to these questions. 

All we can do is search our feelings, not to find anything in particular, but to see who we are and learn to love, forgive, be compassionate and make peace with it. As to the question of miracles, I suppose, the very existence of each one of us is a testimony by itself. And what reaffirmed my faith in miracles lately was the rescue of a baby girl born under rubble after the earthquake in Syria. And she was named Aya, meaning 'Miracle' in Arabic. A miracle is, after all, what appears impossible, but happens anyway, and I think we must only have the courage to see it. A simple leap of faith is all it takes. 

- Harishna