Children Weeping in the Night

In my second memoir “Eavesdropping” (which is really a linked collection of essays) I wrote the following passage:

When the doctor appeared he caught me by surprise. His shoes made no sound at all. He pulled back my sheets without warning and stood and looked down on me in silence.

He addressed himself to people I couldn’t see as I lay in the fetal position and held my breath. This was my first experience of being described for others. The doctor referred to me as “this boy” or “this particular case” and the people behind him took notes. I could hear the pencils moving over paper.

When he was through the doctor departed without a word and his retinue followed in silent obedience. I could hear their voices murmuring in the corridor as they walked to another room.

I remember one other sound from the hospital: children weeping in the night.

If we were to name our age I’d call this the era of “Children Weeping in the Night.” In my case I was just a little boy who’d had eye surgery and had become a specimen in a hospital ward. But we’re now facing a global catastrophe of children starving, children with HIV, children whose lives have been literally torn apart by unspeakable violence, much of it state sanctioned. In the United States where medical insurance and social services have been largely taken away one can hear weeping and weeping.

If only tears were percussive. If only the tears of children and their families could be heard beyond Gaza or the Sudan; beyond Ukraine; beyond inner city Cleveland or the Caribbean. What are tears? In the United States we no longer ask. We don’t have to. We simply pass bills that ensure that hospitals will close down. No hospital, no tears. Let them weep in the back alleys and laundromats. Let them weep where the wealthy don’t have to hear them. And while the weeping grows and grows lets build a golden ballroom.