#WordKindnessDay

'What is the quality of life on our planet? It is nothing more than the sum of our interactions. 

Each kindness enhances the quality of life. Each cruelty diminishes it.' 

                                                                                                       - Desmond Tutu and Mpho Tutu

According to the 'trends' bar on Twitter, yesterday was #WorldKindnessDay.
On Sunday, the not quite so United Kingdom saw Acts of Remembrance conducted all around
the four nations, reflecting upon that most unkind of arenas, war. This year, as I made preparations
for the four services that I'd be conducting over the day, it was the power of words that struck home.
Of the many weapons of war, one of the most powerful tools to create conflict is a word honed
and sharpened and polished to deadly perfection.

In research for my thesis, I did a good bit of work on the subject of verbal dispute and reconciliation.
For Early Modern Scots, the Victorian saying:
'Sticks and stones may break my bones
but names will never hurt me,'
would be incomprehensible - in an honour culture, they understood how the power of words
could ruin a reputation. They felt keenly the wounds that words could cause. I've come to the
conclusion that, in a sense, they were much more on point in their understanding concerning
the power of name-calling than the Victorians who made up a saying that is essentially tosh.
Words chip away at self-esteem, words/ name-calling can dehumanise, and words
were one of the first things that were employed by propagandists when war broke out.
It is easier to destroy a fellow human being once you've effectively turned them into a
'mad brute', or 'filthy Hun.' In the process of 'othering', the cogs of conscience are made smooth
and so the justification to eradicate 'vermin' and 'monsters' becomes a little easier.

Paul, the main protagonist in that excellent novel 'All quiet on the Western Front' like his
comrades in the trenches, has not been immune to the effects of 'othering'. Occasionally,
however, he has unexpected glimpses of shared humanity. On one particularly terrifying
night, while out on patrol, he gets confused in the mess and maze of shell holes and trenches
and sits out a bombardment in a crater. During the night, as he hides from an enemy patrol,
a soldier falls on top of him. Instinctively, Paul stabs him, mortally wounding the man. It is
the first time he has been involved in hand to hand combat. The man takes a long time to die.
Compassion compels him to help his enemy; Paul tries to comfort the man, offers him water,
sits with him as he dies. As Paul looks at him, the 'monster' disappears and is replaced by a
fellow human being, a man who, if circumstances had been different, could have been a brother.
Bit by bit, as Paul imagines who the man is, what his life was like, and wonders about his
loved ones, the power of his imagination rehumanises this enemy. A pocket book and
photographs complete the integration and Paul is filled with remorse. Beyond the jingoism
and pithy insults, here in front of him was just another poor soul who'd been caught up
in the horror of war, caught up in the words designed to encourage him to join up, to fight,
and to kill.

The 'war to end all wars' didn't, and over the decades since, words have continued to be a
powerful and deadly weapon. They are not just employed in the arena of war. I watch and
am alarmed at the growing polemic used within political debate and journalism. Words
used by those in power are tools of division, conflict, and disunity. They are used to deflect
the truth. They are used to bully, cajole, condemn, and intimidate. They are picked up
and used by others to destroy 'surrenderers', 'cowards', 'traitors' - all used of those in
the courts tasked with using the rule of law; used of those on different sides of the political
fence who may exercise their democratic right to disagree with a particular point of view.
They are the kinds of words that saw Jo Cox murdered, and are the kinds of words that
will continue to hurt, maim, and kill. They are the kinds of words that are deeply unkind.

And so, we come full circle, back to #WorldKindnessDay.
Perhaps the act of kindness begins by taking one letter out of the hashtag;
perhaps it begins with #WordKindnessDay?
If words can be used to dehumanise, they can also be drafted in to rehumanise.
The Early Modern Scots had quite specific rituals, used to recall 'wild words' -
to take them back out of the social arena, to put them away, and to use words
of reconciliation: confession, apology, taking responsibility, promising to do no further harm;
words making a beginning that recognised and affirmed the inherent humanity of the one
that they'd 'othered'; words even hinting at a possible future in which the relationship was restored.
Perhaps they were on to something.

Instead of breaking someone down with words, #WordKindnessDay would be a day where
words would be used to build one another up. Echoing the words of Desmond and Mpho Tutu,
each word would be carefully considered, each word chosen to communicate kindness, and so,
each word ultimately becoming a tool to enhance the quality of life for all.
Each word used would help to create a culture of kindness in which all are seen not as 'other',
but as precious, fragile, beautiful human beings.
All it takes is a little imagination to see beyond the 'other' and find yourself looking into the
eyes of an almost-familiar face, who with a little kindness, might well become
a friend, a comrade, a kindred spirit.
A simple, difficult task.
A reconciling task.
A task, I think, that faith calls us to, so to break the cycle of destruction and dehumanising.
There's a saying that often crops up:
'practise random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.'
In one way, I like the feel of it, and yet... I think I need to work more on being more intentional
in the way I practise kindness.
And perhaps it's by making a start by using one - carefully considered - word at a time.