Today I am Writing: On Witnessing

Here at the Institute we are buzzing around, planning an event called "The Witness."

The event is built on a documentary of the same name, the story of the story that inspired the 911 system. As the story goes, in 1964, a woman named Kitty Genovese was stalked, raped, and murdered while 38 people watched it, and yet no one did anything about it. The documentary follows Kitty's brother, trying to find out what happened. He talks to "the witnesses" he can find, and finds out: They didn't actually witness anything.

The story he has built his life on turns out to be not true.

And yet, in the journey, he makes connections with people who knew his sister, people involved in the story in deep ways. In the long run he finds a new truth: Love.

The documentary raises questions regarding "what is the truth that I think that I know?" and "what does it mean to be a witness anyway?" It causes one to think, "If I'd been there, and I'd seen it...what would I have done?"

And swirling in my mind is the question:
What kind of witness would I be?

Then, this morning, I find a beautiful moment of witnessing right there on the nytimes. It tells the story of the man who bowed his knee, giving his name to those who would malign it, because he witnessed something, because he felt it too. He bowed his knee to say: I will be a witness; will someone witness me?

It tells the story from the perspective of the friend who was there too, the friend who is saying, "If I saw but I stay silent, my silence has betrayed you." And the moment is beautiful, because right there at the center of it is: Love.

And it swirls in me, it sticks with me. It makes me say:
What kind of witness am I being?

Also this morning, I find myself in my own painful rage. I stalk out to the coffee shop, to do my work, to get myself together. As I arrive, I run into the friend, seated in a meeting. He says hello; I wave my arms as my angst comes tearing out of my face. Later, he finds me. He sits down at my table. He looks at me. He listens. His witness doesn't judge me. His only response is one small sentence, but in it all, my heart relaxes.  In it all, he says: My ears are yours. And I see you.

His witnessing says: Doesn't matter that you're downright crazy.
You. Are. Loved.

And I think: Will I be a witness who first and foremost says,
I will see so that I might love? You.

On the top of my stack of books to be read is a new one, referred to me by a friend. Titled Blindspot: hidden biases of good people, it aims to reveal the ways we all come to some kind of truth or other about the world around us. It helps us to say: Yeah, you're a good person. But even good people hold on to truth that is not Truth. And it is hurting people. (It is even hurting you.)

And I think: Will I be a witness who has dealt with her untrue truths?

All these things swirl through my mind as I go about my day. I think about what witnessing requires, what witnessing does. It validates. It says I heard it, I saw it. But if the witness never tells, what good is it? And if the witness has built their life on a truth that is not true, will they understand what they have seen? And will they know enough to do something about it?

I go about my day and to the top there rises tall
the Really Swirling Question, which is:

What kind of witness do I want to be?

And to it, I find the only really possible answer:

The kind who has prepared her eyes, to see. Prepared her ears, to hear. Prepared her heart.

To Truthfully Love.

Because what we witness and how we respond?
[To the one who lost his sister,
to the one who is afraid of what else might be lost,
to the one, who--]
Absolutely matters.