the cassandra pages

Sorrow, Solidarity, and Soul-Searching in Quebec

Vigil in Montreal last night. Photographs by Jonathan Sa'adah.

The news of Sunday's attack on the mosque in Quebec City, and the deaths of six people, hit us very hard. Coming on top of Trump's travel ban, last weekend, I had to wonder if the timing was coincidental, or if the young perpetrator had been pushed over some personal edge into action by the anti-Muslim rhetoric from a U.S. administration. His political identity, however, had been in place for some time; he was a sympathizer of Marine lePen, of the French far-right, and had expressed anti-Muslim, anti-women sentiments on the web.

There has been a racist, anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim element in Quebec for a long time. Here in the larger and very diverse city of Montreal, some tend to cast blame on Quebec City and the rural areas of the province, which tend to be more mono-chromatically French-Canadian, and where separatist sentiment maintains a stronger foothold. In Montreal, significant numbers of non-white people run for office and are elected from their districts; this is another way in which change is slowly happening. Another is that the fluently-bilingual younger generations seem to have less interest in division of any kind, and I find it heartening to know and talk to these progressive, globally-concerned young people, for whom travel -- even on a shoestring -- is a priority. But plenty of racism occurs here as well.

In spite of liberal immigration policies, nearly every one of my immigrant friends has faced discrimination and considerable difficulty when trying to settle in Montreal, too, particularly when trying to find employment, but also in more subtle and insidious ways. Racism against the indigenous population is not merely an historical national disgrace, but a severe ongoing problem. However, perhaps because violent crime and incidents of mass murder are much less common here than in the U.S., we have failed to extrapolate from racist attacks on women with headscarves, or vandalism at mosques, that sooner or later something like the Quebec City attack might happen.

Hate crime has risen in Canada and across the province of Quebec; an article in the Montreal Gazette from November 2016 titled "The Trump effect and the normalization of hate in Quebec" contains analysis and statistics, as well as this prediction, so uncomfortable to read in hindsight:

A study of the terrorism and extremism incident database... calculated that five people had been killed in 49 white supremacist incidents in Canada between 2001 and 2015, at least seven of them in Quebec.

“One officer told us ‘we know they’re here but until something happens we won’t do anything,’ ” Perry said. “They’re waiting for someone to be hurt or a mosque to be burned down.”

Daniel Gallant, a former white supremacist who spent ten years with Neo-Nazi groups in Alberta, is now getting his law degree and dedicating his life to anti-radicalization efforts. He says his job "just got a lot harder" with the election of Donald Trump.

Gallant...says another factor that may explain the increase in hate crimes is how “normal” the ideology has become. It was normal for him, growing up in Alberta. There is still Canadian legislation in force — like the Indian Act, for example — that is reflective of white supremacist ideology, he says.

The Soldiers of Odin, for example — founded in Finland with the express motive of creating fear in the Muslim community — have set up at least 12 new chapters in Western Canada in the last eight months, Gallant said. The Quebec chapter, les Soldats d’Odin, were among several anti-immigrant groups who marched in Quebec City last month.

“They are garnering huge public support by watering down the message and casting a wide net to allow as many people as possible into the organization.”

The study noted that white supremacist groups had been emboldened by an "enabling climate" such as the "divisive discourse of the Charter of Values in Quebec," proposed by the Parti Quebecois and defeated in the last election, and nationally with some of the policies of former Prime Minister Stephen Harper. The study's authors conclude:

“In a word, hate is increasingly 'mainstream,' and thus increasingly legitimate. In part, this has been accomplished by toning down the rhetoric, and doing away with the white robes and brown shirts. But it has also been accomplished by forging links with the ultimate authority: the state.”

I was sorry to see a blaming mindset at work on Sunday, when the news media released the names of two suspects, one of which was a Muslim name, and speculated -- against all common sense, but of course picked up by Fox News -- that there might be a link to Islamic terrorism. The second suspect was released after a night in jail and identified instead as a witness. Upon entering the mosque and discovering dead and wounded victims, he had run when he mistook an armed police officer for the shooter. Yesterday it became clear that the actual terrorist was neither Muslim nor Middle Eastern, but a home-grown white-supremacist armed with an assault rifle, completely illegal here. This, not Muslim fundamentalism, is the true face of terror in North America, and it's high time we admitted it.

Today, the great majority of the people in this province are appalled, grieving, and doing some necessary soul searching about racism and the rise of the far-right in Canadian society and in Quebec specifically. The photographs in this post are from a vigil in Montreal last night, attended by thousands of people who came out in the freezing cold to stand together in solidarity and love.

Personally, I am reeling from the pile-up of recent events. It's been difficult to sleep, and difficult to ignore the news and my own thoughts enough to work. However, I'm trying to take my own advice to heart; on Sunday I spent the day singing, and yesterday afternoon I managed to do some research and writing, and I've continued that today; soon I'll go off to the pool and swim my laps.

What we're witnessing, however, is unprecedented in North American democracy. The feeling is that we've embarked on a voyage through unknown waters, where Sirens and Cyclops, Scylla and Charybdis lie in wait, and only our collective wits, determination, and love can save us.

One Week Later: Report from Washington DC

This is a guest post by my friend Vivian Lewin, who went to the Women's March in Washington last weekend, traveling from Montreal to a friend's house in Pennsylvania by car and then to D.C. Vivian and I met more than ten years ago through Christ Church Cathedral, and quickly realized we had much in common - being American, being writers and readers, loving textiles and sewing for just a few. She is a veteran of many marches, and we both wanted to share her experience and perspective here.

At 5:30 a.m. on January 21, 2017, the parking lot of Harrisburg Area Community College was already filling up when we arrived: Five people—two living nearby, two from Poughkeepsie, one from Montreal. We had all slept in Camp Hill, gotten up at four, eaten breakfast, and brought our lunches and charged-up phones/cameras to board a chartered bus and go to DC. A local woman who uses a walker joined us; the six of us managed to keep together all day.

 Holly, Candice, Tom (wearing a hat made by Vivian), Bonnie, and Samantha

People kept arriving, forming a long line in the dark. It was chilly, but that’s not what gave me goosebumps. I’m a dual US Canadian citizen and a Florida voter. After having watched the US election by myself on November 20, and having listened to the Inauguration Day coverage in the car alone on my drive from Montreal the day before, it seemed like a miracle to be in the company of like-minded women and men. I thrilled to think how many other parking lots were filling, how many other groups of people were converging on Washington. How many buses rolling through the night—some from Canada. How many friends and relations had sent us off with pink pussyhats (thank you, cassandrabeth!) or prayers or sandwiches. “Take a few steps for me,” one friend wrote, and other emails arrived too. “Be safe.” “My thoughts are with you.” I was there for others, not just anonymous others but carrying the hopes of people I know.

I felt we all shared a resolve that this day be as deeply meaningful as we could make it. Knitting hats, making posters by hand, meditating, praying, reserving hotel rooms or arranging car shares takes forethought and a resolute determination.

We reached DC around 9:30. To get to the actual march we six walked through the enormous parking lot of RFK Stadium—full to capacity with tour buses— to the metro entrance with an elevator. People made way for Bonnie and her walker. The cars were filled with marchers—they applauded Bonnie—and our train took us near the Mall.

Bonnie and her walker: "“I bought this especially for today. It’s supposed to be good for rough terrain and only weighs 13 pounds.”  

A woman in our metro car...

We emerged to find the street already filled with people. You’ve seen the photos. We only got that overview from the giant screens along the way. Gloria Steinem was talking. We walked towards the unseen stage until the crowd was too thick, then planted ourselves where we could watch a screen, and stood in front of it for hours under a leaden sky. The crowd—each person in it—was as inspiring as the speeches. We photographed each other—friends and strangers alike. The memorable speeches began to blur together.

I was tired. My feet hurt. Cell service was limited and nobody knew whether we would march, or where. One network said the march was cancelled but a security guy said it would go towards the Washington Monument. Slowly, we threaded our way in that direction, single file through the crowd. Eventually, the actual march crawled in that direction, too. I was pretty numb; the day became an endurance exercise. When an officer in a police car said we were over a million, I told my friends and one of them started to cry. Yes indeed, it was all worth it! I told random strangers (not really strangers any more) as they passed, just to see the joy on their faces. We sat on the curb to rest as the crowd poured past on their way to the Ellipse. “What does democracy look like?” one fellow called and the crowd bellowed back “THIS is what democracy looks like.” Nobody wanted to stop that chant.

My decision, early on, to go to Washington felt personal, stubborn, even helpless. What I could write or do that would be more useful? Was it a kind of pilgrimage? I’d say, in retrospect, that I went to witness my resolve. There’s a prophetic tradition of doing acts that seem absurd—that put the lie to worldly power. Amazing to experience such an act manifested in the sea of people who had, together, come.

There is much work to do. I’ve marched in other “protests” that felt angry, or giddy, or triumphant. I didn’t feel that way on Saturday. This is one for the long haul. As James Louder wrote this morning, “The enormities of Trump’s first week are so enormous and so diverse, so wantonly and widely destructive that the mind boggles before any attempt of analysis…”. So it’s good to hold on to the memory of this day. I know that my experience will keep me keeping on. (See also “Activism 101, and Regular Life” in the Cassandra Pages)

Vivian Lewin is a Montreal writer who grew up in Pennsylvania. She attended Oberlin (AB honors English) and the University of Florida (MFA creative writing). She is a dual citizen of Canada and the US, and is a Florida voter. Vivian has made poems and quilts during the course of her life and has taught quilting; now she is a spiritual director and Lay Reader in the Anglican church and also works with a Healing Pathway group.

Activism 101, and Regular Life

As reality begins to settle in, the internet is groaning with collective distress and calls for action. Over the next few weeks and months, it's going to become clearer what for the resistance is going to take, and what paths are likely to be more effective. Right now, I know that I've been deeply affected by events, what people are saying and writing, and my own thoughts. Because I'm in living in Canada now, but am a dual citizen who votes in both countries, friends and acquaintances everywhere I go are asking me "what do you think, what's going to happen, please explain America's system to me., can't something be done?" It's been preoccupying, to say the least.

I'm grateful for the perspective of my threescore years and the various struggles I've been involved with during my life, and after some serious reflection I've made some decisions about this blog: I am not going to give it over to political posting, except on occasion. This is a place where readers tell me they've often come for a break from whatever was going on, not to get more of it. They've found some beauty, perhaps, or some quiet reflections. I want that to continue, and it's the healthier path for me, too.

However, I will still be working to resist what is happening in our world. The big danger in activism is discouragement and burn-out, and I'd like to offer a few suggestions for how to avoid that. This is advice I'll be returning to myself, because even when it's first-hand knowledge, we're dealing with a lot of emotion here, and that for inevitable ups and downs, and it makes us get caught up so that we forget.

1. "I'm so excited, I really want to do something and be involved."  Or, its flip side: "I'm already exhausted - how are we going to do this for four years?"

We each have different capacities for activist work. The euphoria of shared events like marches is great, but it can't last. It's much better to do a little bit on a sustained basis than to do too much, too fast, and get burned out. So think about yourself and your life: do you think you can commit a half-hour a day? An hour a week? One Saturday a month? Four years is a long time. Pick a reasonable and sustainable commitment for you, and stick to it.

2. "I'm actually not sure what to do: I feel overwhelmed by all the issues"

We are all in danger of becoming overwhelmed by too many issues, all of which are vitally important. A wise priest once said to me, "It doesn't really matter where you go in. What matters is that you DO go in, and that you don't scatter your energies too much. So find something that calls to you, and focus there."

If you don't already have a particular issue, such as the environment, or reproductive rights for women, or racism and police brutality, then -- whether you are religious/spiritual or not -- my suggestion is to find a quiet space where you won't be disturbed, and sit for twenty minutes asking that question: "What should I do? Where should I go in?" Ask the universe. Sit still, listen to your breathing, and when your thoughts run away from you, gently bring them back to that question. You may not get an answer right away; you may have to do this over some days or even weeks. But it's actually a very good use of your time, because through this process of discernment you're going to find out some things about yourself. What bothers you the most about what's happening? What makes you feel knotted up inside, or angry, or like crying? Your work is going to be more effective and feel better if it is focused where your own heart is, and through it, you will meet other people who share the same deep concerns and be more effective together.

3. "I don't know what is effective and what isn't."

• Be informed. Use some of your time to read up in quality, reliable media on the issues that concern you the most; know the facts, know the players, learn what is being done.
• Read at least one non-US publication to get a wider perspective, if you don't already: the Guardian is a good place to start.
• Individual action: in less than one hour a week, you can contact all the members of your Congressional delegation about the one or two issues that have most concerned you. Keeping up the pressure, week after week, is extremely important. Don't write a long letter - it won't be read. Use the websites your  senators and representatives have already set up, state the issue or choose it from a list, and write a clear, brief sentence or two. Or send a printable postcard, week after week. The responses will be counted and tallied -- large numbers mean the constituents are very concerned. That's what matters, so make it a habit. The opposition feeds itself on polls and celebrity, and they were very distressed about poor attendance at the inauguration vs the marches. We need to continue to show them that there are more of us and we aren't going away.
• Group action: resistance groups will emerge around many of the issues we are all concerned about, and you will be able to link up with them and be stronger together. Events will be planned around individual issues and collective issues: please show up.
• Sorry, but posting to social media is NOT effective activism; it's preaching to the  choir, or wallowing in group-think. Yes, sometimes there are good articles to be discovered or shared, and we all need to talk to people. But unless you already have a big following, or are organizing an event, daily life on social media is not how change happens. You need to do the other stuff too, as your priority.
• If you can, give some money to places where it really counts. There will be innumerable groups and de-funded organizations that need your support. It's just like your time: figure out what you can spare, and commit to doing that - $5 a week, $10 a month, whatever. I gave a donation this week to International Planned Parenthood, for instance, and will continue to support both the national and international groups, because reproductive health and freedom have been significant issues for me all my life.

4. "I feel guilty living my regular life."

In a word: Don't. When we allow this crap to seep into every area of our lives, paralyzing us like the venom it is, the bastards have won. Part of the struggle against fascism, extreme negativity, fear and violence is to maintain our true selves, and a belief in all that is good in the world and in our lives. So don't stop creating, don't stop loving, and don't stop living. The formless and pervasive sense of "I should be doing something" will be alleviated by your discernment, your focus, and your commitment to do something concrete each day or each week. So do that, and then get on with your life, wholeheartedly.

Which is what this blog will be doing.

The Vulnerable City: On Weather and the North

The province of Quebec, with Montreal at lower center; image from Google Earth. James Bay and Hudson Bay at top left, Gulf of St Lawrence at far right, center.

A storm is coming.

I walked to work today, knowing it may be the last chance for a few days to walk quickly and easily on bare sidewalks. The sky is grey, low; the temperature just below freezing; the air slightly damp and still. Even without a weather report, northerners like me would be likely to say, "feels like it's going to snow."

Along Avenue Mont-Royal, I passed the jewelry shop where the bare fingers of a white mannequin waited for their ten o'clock adornment; past the bakery, always closed on Mondays, the librairie with its window display of mandala coloring books and blank notebooks covered in Italian papers, and stopped in at the Intermarché to buy a can of tuna for lunch. At the light I turned left and walked up Papineau, a wide boulevard full of commuter traffic, past the earnest early-morning exercisers on their treadmills at EnergieCardio, and through a zone of abandoned buildings, boarded up and pasted with film posters. There was an empty lot filled with snow and faced by a chain-link fence and a tangle of city barricades, the sort that get put up when there's a street closure for a march or a race, each bearing a vertical sign with the city's name and logo. Suddenly - was it that unexpected expanse of snow? the slight but insistent wind that I'd begun to feel after turning north? --  I felt the city not as a self-contained zone of urban activity, but as a vulnerable fortress set in a wild, raw landscape surrounding it on all sides. I immediately thought of the early French settlers, building a literal fortress near the river, the walls of which still remain: while it may have protected them from angry Hurons it certainly didn't do much against the harsh winters, except to give the colonists a place to huddle together with some protection from the wind.

I thought of other cities I love: Reykjavik, with no defense but evacuation, should Katla erupt; Mexico City, surrounded by volcanoes and devastated by the huge earthquake in 1985; New York, deluged by hurricane Sandy and vulnerable to rising ocean levels. Human beings have tried so valiantly to protect themselves from outside threats, all through history, whether it's by making walls or vaccines. Here, in the big cities, there is an illusion, maintained by concrete and glass and steel -- the mountains and valleys of our own construction that we populate and animate by artificial light and constant movement -- that we are in control, that this, not nature, is the true reality. Perhaps it's an illusion easier to perpetuate in more populated areas with gentler climates, where an entire life can be lived without venturing into life-threatening wildness, or even driving through it. Are far-northern cities and societies different, I wondered? Why have Canada and the Scandinavian countries committed themselves to such a high level of social welfare for their citizens? Is it merely wealth, or does something else, perhaps more elemental, contribute to a collectivist mentality? An awareness, chilled into our bones, that beyond this outpost are the vast forest and frozen tundra, the bears and the wolves, the unchecked arctic wind, the iceberg sea?

Women's March, Montreal: Nous Sommes Avec Vous

Photo by Jonathan Sa'adah

That's me, leaving for the demonstration at 10:30 this morning. I didn't sleep well at all last night, so I was tired, but woke up determined to go add my presence and voice to the rally at the Esplanade at Place des Arts in Montreal, in solidarity with the Women's March on Washington. If I'd been in the U.S. I probably would have gone to D.C. Eight years ago, Jonathan and I were there for Obama's inauguration. What a different feeling on that day - never in a million years would I have expected that a far-right candidate could be elected in the U.S. less than a decade later.

I am tired: I feel like I've been doing this all my life; I'm angry, sad, worn-out. But I wanted to be there, taking a physical stand for human rights and diversity, for peace and non-violence, against racism and hate, against the unleashing of police violence, and especially for the younger women I love who should never have to fight these battles that we thought were already won. So I got up, and got going, knowing a lot of you were doing the same thing in your cities.

When I entered the metro, the tv screens were showing footage of angry Montreal women burning and stomping on an effigy of Trump. But when I arrived at the Place des Arts, I saw nothing of the sort; there was a large crowd of women and men and children, it was peaceful, respectful, and attentive to the speakers who spoke in French and English. I even ran into several people I know, which made me feel like I really do belong here in my adoptive city. After a while I began moving around through the crowd, asking permission to take photos and having my own picture taken too. Here are some of those images.

"Solidarity Doesn't Have A Border" - this woman was so kind when I told her I was a dual citizen; her purpose in being there, she said, was to support American women.

This young American woman is a student at McGill.

 

The sign reads: "Yes to: the arts, diversity, compassion, public education, feminism, social justice, electoral reform, climate protection, human rights. No to: hate, fear, homophobia, trans-phobia, xenophobia, misogyny, isolationism, toxic masculinity, and the culture of violence."

 

 

 

How's that for a great slogan?

 "Justin" refers to the Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau.

I had a really good conversation with this Iranian woman who has lived in Montreal for the past 18 years, and was holding a banner for an association of Iranian women. She was concerned about the fate of the recent treaty with Iran, but mainly upset about intolerance in America, where she has friends and family.

Yes, and the rest of us are with you on that.

And a final word from the late great Montreal son, Leonard Cohen.

--

I'm glad I went. I feel considerably better than yesterday, which was one of the darker days in my life.

But to avoid the problems of protests like the Occupy movement, it's crucial that this is the the first day of an increasingly organized, disciplined resistance, with clear positions and demands, and a coherent leadership. Our next task is to organize. We have a great deal of work to do, and it's going to be a very difficult road, but there are a lot of us, we're strong and fierce, we've have justice on our side, and we're everywhere.

A Fortune, and Two Quotations

 Oh, if only we all could believe that! However, in spite of my fortune cookie form last Saturday, I fear that the current year will bring a very mixed bag of blessings, sorrows, and anxieties. The question is how to deal with it, since we have no choice but to hurtle forward. I am appalled at what is going to happen tomorrow, but it is a fact that none of us can escape. We can march, we can write letters, we can post indignant messages on social media, we can wake up in the middle of the night, we can gnash our teeth, but none of this is going to change the fact that an unfit, erratic, irresponsible and unprepared person whose values are the opposite of mine is about to take office. There will be much to do in the coming months, but it is going to be a question of persuading the people in his own party to stand up for decency, and that he is a liability to them as well as the populace. We can march all we want, but if we are merely talking to ourselves it will really be like blowing into the wind.

Americans are going to have to listen to one another and learn to reclaim their common values: remember what Abraham Lincoln said? "A house divided against itself cannot stand." Lincoln was quoting a statement that would have been recognized by most of his listeners then, though not today, as coming from scripture. Matthew, Mark and Luke all have Jesus saying this, which most authorities consider to be fairly definitive proof that he did. The phrase that precedes it is "a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand." Whether we are talking on a large scale or a smaller one, the point is the same.

So who are you going to listen to? Is it possible for you to initiate a non-confrontational dialogue with someone who voted differently? Because, frankly, that is what it's going to take, all across the board. Both Democrats and Republicans are going to be forced to re-think, re-learn, re-consider; otherwise, the house truly will not stand.

I grew up in a rural part of the country that has always been Republican, and this election was no exception. I understand why. And it makes me ache to think how devastated these voters will be, yet again, when they lose even more as a result of their choice, and discover that this person knew exactly what to say to get elected, but will not deliver on his promises. I know many of them, and though I disagree deeply, I also know they are good people with genuine concerns that have not been met at all by any administration, any politician. This is not an apology, it is just a fact. I've also lived long enough to see people change in their attitudes about women, blacks, LGBT persons, people of other faiths and ethnicity. It takes time and it takes leadership, it takes openness and it takes listening and honesty on both sides, and an awareness that what we stand to lose through our divisions is much worse. Change for the better is actually possible, and it is important to hold onto that as a foundational truth and personal tenet. As the outgoing president is fond of saying - quoting Martin Luther King, Jr. - "The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice."

In the meantime, I am trying to look closely at the beauty that surrounds us, and to draw strength from that. It's there in so many ways: so much is given to us absolutely for free, beginning with each breath. So I take heart from that awareness, and from the fact that other people have seen this, been sustained by it, and worked with it throughout history even during the darkest times. We can too.

 

 

A plate of persimmons, watercolor, January 2017

Rome V: The Gates of Janus

January.

There's a space of time after the end of one year when the new one seems suspended in time, like a train on the platform that we haven't yet boarded, or a person -- awaited but unknown -- who stands on our doorstep, still outside the circle of our acquaintance. We move forward reluctantly, still held by the past: the Christmas tree  in the living room, the half-filled tins of cookies, the messages we intended to write over the holidays that still need to be sent. We resolve all sorts of new beginnings but the brandy-soaked fruitcake, baked late, is still improving, and the community pool isn't yet open; surely my good intentions can be put off a few days longer. 

Epiphany and Twelfth Night come and go. We've sung all the Christmas music; my choir folder is empty for the first time since September. I've written "2017" a few times now, and each of those Roman numerals inked on the page or appearing on my screen cuts a chink in the armor of the past year; it weakens as the numbers grow into double digits: eight, ten, twelve. The tree has to come down, says my husband, it would be so much easier to do it during this warmer spell. I agree, but bargain for the weekend. He's right, though. The holly berries are brown and falling off their stems, and even the persimmons, which I so happily drew and painted through the season, are soft and shriveled.

Here we are, then, on January 12th. I've finally finished a project that belonged to last year and feel ready to stop procrastinating about several new ones. But I realize that it is not just any new year that's holding me back, it's this year, and the uncertainty about what lies ahead. If I could hold back time, I would.

So I spend my morning reading about ancient Rome and the fall of empire. My intention for the months ahead is to writing something longer about Rome, and about my own life, for which some of these blog posts are notes, a draft. It's difficult to give shape to something formless, but that is the challenge and pull as well. One of the last books I read in 2016 was The Hour of the Star, by Clarice Lispector, in which she shows us her own reluctance to give shape to her protagonist, who both attracts and repels her, perhaps because she senses what she will be forced to do to her in the course of the short novel of her life, in order to be true to the person she is inventing. In this new year where we feel such a lack of control, this exploration of the process of creativity felt somehow comforting.

 

Silver Roman didrachm from 225-12 BC

Janus, one of the most ancient Roman deities, is always depicted with two faces. He has been associated with the month of January from the time of King Numa Pompilius, seven centuries before Christ. Numa was the second of the seven legendary kings of Rome who ruled after the city's founding by Romulus. He is credited with adding two months, January and February, to the Roman Calendar which formerly began in March and ran through December, followed by an unnamed winter gap of 56 days. The Romans continued to celebrate the New Year at the beginning of March until 154 BC, when the Senate declared January 1 to be the start of the year, probably as an acknowledgement of Janus, whose faces look forward to the future and backward toward the past.

Janus was the god of beginnings, symbolized by gates and doorways; his name, ianus, also means an arcade or covered walkway in Latin, while ianua became the word for any double-sided door, such as an entrance door to a home or the entrance to a temple. 

Numa Pompilius is also considered to be the builder of the Temple of Janus, in about 700 BC, one of the earliest buildings in the Roman Forum. The temple was small and rectangular, open to the sky, and enclosed by bronze gates.

According to tradition, the gates of the Temple of Janus were closed when Rome was at war, and opened when at peace. In the Aeneid, Virgil mentions that the gates were closed when the war began between the Latins and the Trojans; Augustus boasted that he had closed the gates three times during his reign.

Sestertius of Nero, 64-66 AD

The emperor Nero issued this coin, showing the closed gates of the temple, in 64-66 AD. It commemorates the end of war with Armenia; the legend reads: PACE P[opuli] R[omani] TERRA MARIQ[ue] PARTA IANVM CLVSIT ("Since the peace of the Roman People was established on land and sea, he closed the Shrine of Janus").

--

The closing of the gates was a big deal, accompanied by ceremonies and proclamations, because it so seldom happened; throughout the centuries Rome was rarely at peace. I can't think of any modern equivalent to these temple gates, certainly not in America, where the waging of undeclared war has fallen to new depths. My sense of dread is not necessarily about wars to come, but more about how war is even defined in 2017. Despite the outward appearance and gentle rhetoric of the Obama administration, America has been engaged in an escalating drone war throughout these eight years, a war that would certainly have continued and perhaps increased under Clinton. Special forces are covertly deployed in many countries; a new 30-year program will modernize and refurbish America's nuclear capability rather than dismantling it. I doubt that even an erratic president will allow a nuclear exchange. But terror abroad and at home, random acts of murder by disturbed persons (often, sadly, military veterans), domestic police violence, racial and ethnic profiling, detentions and deportations, surveillance, and - perhaps most important of all - the divisions in society in general, have increased and will continue to do so, along with the anxiety of human beings everywhere, and the desperate needs of refugees fleeing violence. So it is not a case of closed gates and open ones, as any intelligent person knows, but the emperors would always like us to think so.