Those Who Suffer History

We reach the middle of the month, and Camus gives us its clearest instruction. In December of 1957, standing up to accept the Nobel Prize, he spoke about what a writer is for, and the words reach far past writing. By definition, he said, he cannot put himself today in the service of those who make history; he is at the service of those who suffer it.

There are, roughly, two kinds of people in any age. There are those who make history, the ones with power, the names in the headlines, the movers who decide and command. And there are those who suffer history, the vast majority, the ones things are done to, who endure the wars and the policies and the prices without ever being asked. Camus knew which side an honest person belongs on. Not with the makers. With the sufferers. Not with the powerful, who need no defender, but with the ones subject to power, who have almost no one.

This is where the whole month has been heading. Solidarity is not a warm feeling spread evenly over everyone. It has a direction. It leans, deliberately, toward the ones being crushed. To ask, in any situation, whose side am I on, and to answer with those who suffer it, is the plainest test of the bond we have been tracing since the first of July.

We are only halfway. The month has more to say about the limits and the costs of this loyalty. But the compass is set now, and it is worth carrying out of these two weeks. When you are unsure where to stand, stand with those who suffer history, not those who make it.

Today, in one decision, however small, choose the side of the ones being acted upon rather than the ones in charge. Serve the sufferers. That is the direction. Everything else this month is a matter of learning to hold it.