CONSCIENCE FUND

m. cygalski
july 2001

when I first heard that the conscience fund
I had invested in had been tied to military operations
I was busy building a future
and didn't give the news much thought

later, at a lecture on campus, we were told
half the population of a small nation
whose ways lagged behind slowly
had been massacred to give way to free
and civilized ways of another

a short plea by a speaker from the ravaged nation
followed a slideshow—the tribal past of the people
hunting, fishing, gathering
and the bloody aftermath of the slaughter—
the speaker passed around several live bullets
"these were made here, in your country"
he handed out pictures and lists of names, addresses
"the killers were trained in your military schools"
and he meant that we should be incredulous

—but I guess I wasn't,
and between attempts at empathy, it showed
just thinking I'd have to make phonecalls
bank visits—and I guess I wasn't alone
thinking that

he saw reflected in the eyes of the gathered
that he had stood in the lecture hall alone
pregnant with the message from his people
unable to deliver

he realized he had found no empathy here
and seeing him grasp that was almost painful
as painful as watching childbirth

I brought one shiny bullet back from the lecture
and called the bank, the investment had been doing well
they gave me my money and more
that I don't know what to do with

but I have been turning the bullet and weighing it in my hand
and I can't put it away

media sources claim that the surviving half of the population
although a minority in their new country
are adapting and will continue to reap
advantages of industry and progress

I still remember our apathy reflected in his eyes
the moment he knew
—for me, it was as difficult as realizing
that I had never really understood
the structure of my own ignorance
the silent cruelty of comfort

and as I turn and weigh the bullet in my hand
I see him standing there
pregnant with the message from his people
alone on the floor of the lecture hall
slides flashing by
blotches of dried blood on the skin of corpses bulldozered
into mass graves

I have been turning and weighing the shiny bullet in my hand
and its warmth sooths me as I turn it and weigh it
and I still don't know what to do with it
whether to put it away, where to put it