Here’s the church. Here’s the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people. Child’s play back in the day, with not a minaret to be seen.
Nearly 58 percent of Swiss voters put the nix on minaret building and the kibosh on religious tolerance. Of course, it’s never that simple.
My heritage is Swiss. I grew up high on its famed neutrality, sobered in time by the knowledge of Swiss banks looting Holocaust victims.
The Switzerland I’ve loved is pure. I’ve hiked its alps, wandered its valleys and worked its farmland. I’ve hugged its wondrous terrain by cable car, hiking boot and utterly punctual train. Tilted a bowl of warm milk to my lips in a mountain cabin rocked by June blizzards. Sung with Tante Anna. Laughed with Hans. Had a crush on Peter. Skied with Otti and Ernst. Church bells and cow bells everywhere. Not a minaret to be seen.
Wouldn’t it be comforting to knit the inconsistencies into an emblematic wool scarf just now. Self-preservation so deeply moves us all, preceding love, consuming trust. Religion holds scant sway and no amount of logic makes us holy.
What shall become of a world were mercies languish at the feet of terror, our only lonesome vote: our art?
Photo credit Roland Zumbüh, Sankt Martin im Calfeisental
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