TIME: Almanac 1990/1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso/time/052989/05298900.000

Text File | 1990-09-22 | 5.9 KB | 116 lines

ESSAY, Page 96

Welcome to the Global Village

By Lance Morrow


    A new world has developed like a Polaroid photograph, a vivid,
surreal awakening.

    The effect has been contradictory: a sense of sunlight and
elegy at the same time, of glasnost and claustrophobia.

    Whenever the world's molecules reorganize themselves, of
course, someone announces a new reality -- "All changed, changed
utterly: A terrible beauty is born," in W.B. Yeats' smitten lines
about the Irish rebellion of Easter 1916. Seventy-three years
later, the Irish troubles proceed, dreary, never beautiful -- an
eczema of violence in the margins.

    But the world in the past few years has, in fact, profoundly
changed. In Tiananmen Square last week, many of the demonstrators'
signs were written in English. The students knew they were enacting
a planetary drama, that their words and images in that one place
would powder into electrons and then recombine on millions of
little screens in other places, other minds,  around the world.
The planet has become an intricate convergence -- of acid rains and
rain forests burning, of ideas and Reeboks and stock markets that
ripple through time zones, of satellite signals and worldwide
television, of advance-purchase airfares, fax machines, the
miniaturization of the universe by computer, of T-shirts and mutual
destinies.

    The planetary circuits are wired: an integrated system, a
microchip floating in space. Wired for evils -- for AIDS, for
example, for nuclear war, for terrorism. But also for
entertainment, knowledge and even (we live in hope) for higher
possibilities like art, excellence, intelligence and freedom.
Justice has not gone planetary and never will. But the village has
indeed become global -- Marshall McLuhan was right. No island is
an island anymore: the earth itself is decisively the island now.

    Travel and travel writing are enjoying a sort of brilliant late
afternoon, what photographers call the magic hour before sunset.
But the romantic sense of remoteness shrivels. Even the trash
announces that the planet is all interconnection, interpenetration,
black spillage, a maze of mutual implication, trajectories like the
wrapped yarn of a baseball.

    A scene: blue plastic bags, bags by the thousands, struggle out
of the Red Sea onto the shores of Egypt.

    The wind dries them, and then they inflate like lungs and rise
on the desert air. They come out of the sea like Portuguese
men-of-war and then, amphibious, as if in some Darwinian drama,
sail off to litter another of the earth's last emptinesses. Reverse
Darwin, really: devolution, a flight of death forms.

    Those who actually read Salman Rushdie's notorious best seller
The Satanic Verses may have absorbed Rushdie's brilliant perception
of what the planet has become: old cultures in sudden high-velocity
crisscross, a bewilderment of ethnic explosion and implosion
simultaneously. The Ayatullah Khomeini's response to Rushdie is
(whatever else it is) an exquisite vindication of Rushdie's point.
Khomeini's Iranian revolution was exactly a violent repudiation of
the new world that the Shah had sponsored. The struggle throughout
the Middle East now is, among other things, a collision between
Islam and the temptations and intrusions of the West. In the new
world, everything disintegrates: family, community, tradition,
coherence itself. The old community perishes in deference to a new
community not yet born.

    So the world is exactly Salman Rushdie's Indian characters
passively seat-belted in their flight from Bombay to London, then
blown apart by a random, idiot bomb and soon seen pinwheeling down
to a soft landing off the English coast -- the England where
Kipling comes home to roost and the empire will implode and
intermingle.

    A media tale: American television correspondent covering a unit
of government troops moving against a guerrilla post in El Salvador
keeps eyeing his watch and asking the commander when he will order
the attack. Distracted commander says, "Not yet, not yet."
Correspondent finally explodes, "Goddammit, I've a bird (satellite
feed to the network) at 6 o'clock!" The leader, understanding
perfectly, orders his attack immediately.

    The definition of conquest has changed. Japan has proved that
territory, sheer acreage, means nothing. The Soviet Union's
geographical vastness has availed little in productivity.

    The deepest change may be a planetary intuition that military
war is pointless. Except in atavistic places like the Middle East
and Ireland, conquering territory is a fruitless and
counterproductive exercise. Why conquer land? The Soviets have more
trouble than they can manage with their nationalities. The new
world's battlegrounds are markets and ideas. The Japanese and
Germans, having learned their military lessons the hard way,
re-entered the war by other means.

    Cities like Cairo, Lagos, Nairobi, Mexico City are slouching
toward the new world in the darkest way. Life and death struggle
with one another: great birth rates, great death rates. This is the
new world's suffocation, of population, poverty, pollution. The
country people crowd into the cities. Their continuities are
broken, their communities, their village frameworks wrecked, with
nothing to replace them.

    In the new world, America has lost some of its radiant pride
of place. Japan has risen. Europe is organizing itself into a new
collective power. The Soviet Union is struggling to escape the
dustbin of history. Gorbachev, a magician of much elan, attempts
to rescind the hoax of Communism without denouncing its idea. It
is fascinating to watch a smart man trying to defend a premise that
is beneath his intelligence.

    What is the meaning of the new world? Like the older one, it
goes dark and then goes light. It flies through the air. It is
perhaps too intimate to be heroic anymore. It is, on balance,
better than the one before, because it is more conscious.