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 On the street outside the great stone gate of the King’s Palace, a very fat, violently blonde woman stood and stared. She had bare white legs and wore a black cloak and, underneath, a black lace dress that was both dirty and tattered. She had no age and no obvious profession; if she were a housewife, she must be married to a rag picker; or perhaps she had once been an opera singer and had fallen into poverty but retained the black lace dress. She looked very strange indeed, and she represented the Public, for no one else – out of the millions in the King’s City – seemed interested, or could spare the time to come to this street. Celebrities would of course always draw a big crowd; inside the King’s City the attraction was nothing but the politicians of twenty-something nations who were setting ‘a pattern of peace’. This was the recess between the morning and afternoon sessions. The politicians’ automobiles looked magnificent, rich and certain; the delegates did not look different from most of the people you see nowadays in the streets of any European capital, a little shabby but respectable, pallid, tired and not very happy. The delegates went on talking about this ‘peace’, drearily, carefully, almost hopelessly. The various spectators, press and visitors sat on red plush benches and listened or sank into a lethargy produced by the boredom and a desire to be someplace else. The library of the King’s City is a beautiful room and no one goes there; it is full of sun and quiet and faces the ordered grace of the King’s gardens. From the windows you can see the people of the King’s City, who are not much different from any other people. Two young matrons knitted beside their baby carriages; a dreamy old gentleman was painting a water colour; three other old gents sat on a bench reading newspapers and smoking their pipes with great economy of tobacco; some workers, in blue overalls, arrived to eat their lunch in the sun. I wondered if they knew that they and all the other ordinary people everywhere were much more important than the men sitting in the King’s Palace. For in the end, the peace of the world is not in the hands of delegates but in the hands of all people everywhere. It is an almost overpowering effort to be just, informed, sane and strong when you are worried about a roof over your head, money for food, for the children’s shoes, for coal, for a little fun, worried and harassed by the daily unending problem of living. But it is an effort that must be made, for lasting peace is not going to come of itself, nor cheaply, nor due to someone else. The delegates to the peace conference sat in the Senate Chamber of the King’s Palace and finished their voting on the ‘peace treaties’; East versus West; West versus East, as before. The sleek black cars rolled into the handsome courtyard and the delegates drove away. The Conference of the King’s Palace had come to an end. The conference never had power; it was intended as a great international debating society, giving everyone a chance to think aloud. As such, it served its purpose; like a giant alarm bell, it warned people everywhere that our world is dividing in parts, cleft by fear and mistrust. The people, who made war with such extraordinary determination and courage, must make peace the same way – if nations want to live. The astounding stout blonde was not in the meager crowd that watched delegates drive away. Peace was a hard business as she knew very well because she was the one who did the marketing; besides it was already getting cold and she had neither stockings, nor coal for the winter. And everyone talked about the next insane war between A and B, so what was the use of anything? She thought this big expensive peace conference would make the world an easier place to live in, but the world seemed unchanged. She had lost interest for it was all too distinguishing. She went down the block to a café, and drank cognac with friends and tried to forget her own and the world’s problems. Thought: In democracies where the citizens may read, hear or say what they like, the leaders are no better and no worse than the followers. So perhaps, if we cannot blame the leaders because the job of peacemaking is a sorry mess, we can only blame ourselves. Is it possible that all the people of the world paid too heavily for the wars, so now everyone wants peace cheap, at bargain rates, or better still, letting the neighbour bear the cost? Is it possible the poison which flowed from the wars has so infected and corrupted the world; that the people are sick; and have neither the strength, nor health to struggle for peace? - Inspired by readings the daily news, not a particular sole event.
- Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/splatworldwide/238546754/sizes/o/
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