The Plague of Large Nations
In The Cost of Living, Arundhati Roy attacks a so-called Monument of Modern Civilization: the dam. One would think these modern advancements are harmless (if not dull), but Roy tells a stunning tale that is, essentially, about genocide. Placed in valleys with forests and rivers and villages, the dams are like bombs. Plant and animal life are forever eradicated, and people "are flushed out like rats from the land they have lived on for centuries." And these people, if they survive, become like "refugees of an unacknowledged war."
This isn't a new tragedy. Roy establishes that in the past 50 years, roughly 50 million citizens of India have been displaced by the big dams. This is a staggering amount of people, and when Roy uncovers the statistic through sound research, she aptly notes that she feels "like someone who's just stumbled on a massive grave." She also shows the real consequences for these millions of people. Like refugees in their own country, formerly self-sufficient citizens drift into urban slums or barbaric squatter camps. "I can warrant," Roy writes, "that the quality of their accommodation is worse than in any concentration camp of the Third Reich."
How did this happen? With the skill of a muckraking investigative journalist, Roy unravels the tangled web of greed and corruption behind the tragedy. "It's time to spill a few State secrets," she states. She does exactly this -- naming names and depicting the greedy motives of the World Bank and private consultants who have colluded in the mass destruction in exchange for "Range Rovers, holidays in Tuscany, and private schools for their children." Roy also portrays a current battle -- as activists and "the common man" attempt to take on the powers that be.
In the second half of this book, Roy rails against India's recent detonation of a nuclear bomb. She argues that rather than bringing power to India, the bomb is the "ultimate colonizer" -- "the most antihuman, outright evil thing." She lambastes the arrogance of politicians who claim to be democratic yet make no effort to educate and inform millions of their citizens. She mulls over questions of identity and imperialism, as well as her own personal post-fame conflicts with greed and responsibility. Roy's book is slim and concise. She gets right to the point and, while the point is harrowing, her gifts for language and storytelling make this book more than a polemic. The millions of readers who enjoyed The God of Small Things will find the same poetry and grace informing her view of a tragedy:
History has happened. It's over and done with. All we can do is to change its course by encouraging what we love instead of destroying what we don't. There is beauty yet in the brutal, damaged world of ours. Hidden, fierce, immense.
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May 1998. It'll go down in history books, provided of course we have history books to go down in. Provided, of course, we have a future. There's nothing new or original left to be said about nuclear weapons. There can be nothing more humiliating for a writer of fiction to have to do than restate a case that has, over the years, already been made by other people in other parts
of the world, and made passionately, eloquently, and knowledgeably.
I am prepared to grovel. To humiliate myself abjectly, because, in the circumstances, silence would be indefensible. So those of you who are willing: let's pick our parts, put on these discarded costumes, and speak our secondhand lines in this sad secondhand play. But let's not forget that the stakes we're playing for are huge. Our fatigue and our shame could mean the end of us. The end of our children and our children's children. Of everything we love. We have to reach within ourselves and find the strength to think. To fight.
Once again we are pitifully behind the times--not just scientifically and technologically (ignore the hollow claims), but more pertinently in our ability to grasp the true nature of nuclear weapons. Our Comprehension of the Horror Department is hopelessly obsolete. Here we are, all of us in India and in Pakistan, discussing the finer points of politics, and foreign policy, behaving for all the world as though our governments have just devised a newer, bigger bomb, a sort of immense hand grenade with which they will annihilate the enemy (each other) and protect us from all harm. How desperately we want to believe that. What wonderful, willing, well-behaved, gullible subjects we have turned out to be.The rest of humanity (yes, yes, I know, I know, but let's ignore them for the moment. They forfeited their votes a long time ago), the rest of the rest of humanity may not forgive us, but then the rest of the rest of humanity, depending on who fashions its views, may not know what a tired, dejected heartbroken people we are. Perhaps it doesn't realize how urgently we need a miracle. How deeply we yearn for magic.
If only, if only, nuclear war was just another kind of war. If only it was about the usual things--nations and territories, gods and histories. If only those of us who dread it are just worthless moral cowards who are not prepared to die in defense of our beliefs. If only nuclear war was the kind of war in which countries battle countries and men battle men. But it isn't. If there is a nuclear war, our foes will not be China or America or even each other. Our foe will be the earth herself. The very elements--the sky, the air, the land, the wind and water--will all turn against us. Their wrath will be terrible.
Our cities and forests, our fields and villages will burn for days. Rivers will turn to poison. The air will become fire. The wind will spread the flames. When everything there is to burn has burned and the fires die, smoke will rise and shut out the sun. The earth will be enveloped in darkness. There will be no day. Only interminable night. Temperatures will drop to far below freezing and nuclear winter will set in. Water will turn into toxic ice. Radioactive fallout will seep through the earth and contaminate groundwater. Most living things, animal and vegetable, fish and fowl, will die. Only rats and cockroaches will breed and multiply and compete with foraging, relict humans for what little food there is.
What shall we do then, those of us who are still alive? Burned and blind and bald and ill, carrying the cancerous carcasses of our children in our arms, where shall we go? What shall we eat? What shall we drink? What shall we breathe?
The head of the Health, Environment and Safety Group of the Bhabha Atomic Research Center in Bombay has a plan. He declared in an interview (The Pioneer, 24 April 1998) that India could survive nuclear war. His advice is that if there is a nuclear war, we take the same safety measures as the ones that scientists have recommended in the event of accidents at nuclear plants.
Take iodine pills, he suggests. And other steps such as remaining indoors, consuming only stored water and food and avoiding milk. Infants should be given powdered milk. "People in the danger zone should immediately go to the ground floor and if possible to the basement."
What do you do with these levels of lunacy? What do you do if you're trapped in an asylum and the doctors are all dangerously deranged?