The Color of the Hand: Genocide in an Age of Identity
Earlier today, I received a phone call from a dear theologian friend. For a short time, we discussed the horrors of what’s happening in Ukraine. We talked about what it would be like to have to live in such horror. The questions for discussion were endless. How would you escape with your family? Would you be willing to fight back? Where is God during all of this? What can we do? While I’m sure we didn’t get to every question of significance, it seemed that we had covered a tremendous amount of ground. Before we finished up, my friend made a direct remark, “The only thing that would be worse for them is if they were black.” Though the comment certainly gave me pause, I knew that my friend had to go. I also knew that we would come back to the comment.
A few hours later, I received several difficult photographs from one of my Latvian students. This student is a pastor that spends a tremendous amount of time with refugees. In the message, he revealed to me that he used to live in Bucha (where the first evidence of a genocide in Ukraine have appeared). Cautiously, I opened them up. Though I knew they would be horrific, I didn’t feel like I could be a follower of Christ and just turn my head. Every expectation of brutality that I had was exceeded. Mass graves. Dismembered bodies. Evidence of torture. Dead children. The entirety of the photographs combined proved to be nothing short of genocidal.
Through tears, I focused on one photograph. It was the image of a dead woman’s outstretched hand. That might or might not be still attached. Her fingernail polish reminded me of the shade that my grandmother used to wear. One of her nails was blown off. I imagined… Who was she reaching for? Who is it that she loved that will never be touch her again? That shade of red and that blown out nail hasn’t left my mind all day. The tears have stuck around.
This evening, I found myself thinking about what my theologian friend said earlier. Is it true that this dead woman should be glad that she’s not black? Such a comment sounds absurd. But then again, isn’t it always absurd to think that one kind of human life matters more than another? Unfortunately, I hear variations of such comments all the time. Thus is the nature of living in a time of identity. In the midst of such, let me make something very plain…the color of the hand should make no difference with regards to our reaction to it. That hand belongs to a child of God. Our hearts must always break at the sight of injustice if we are to maintain our own humanity. Plus, let’s not forget that the politics of identity (Russian v. Ukrainian) is what caused the ongoing genocide of Ukrainians in the first place.
Amen.
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In