Not everyone who builds walls is a carpenter or a mason. In fact, some of the strongest walls are
built by those who have been wounded, hurt or have felt rejected. The experience of it caused them, consciously
or subconsciously, to begin erecting an invisible barrier between them and the
rest of the world. Brick by brick they
construct this bulwark which they will rely upon to keep harm at a distance.
Maybe you know someone who has surrounded themselves with
such a fortification. If so, you also
know that this defense, which has been designed to keep them safe, often
becomes their own self imposed prison, cutting them off from the experience of
being known and loved. Though these are
some of the deepest longings of the heart, the risk of pain is simply too great
to consider deconstructing the walls they have built. The results of leaving these
ramparts in place are feelings of isolation and loneliness, which are also
tremendously painful. This may lead them
to build higher, stronger walls with which to protect them, trapping themselves
inside.
If you know and love someone who has creates such edifices
in their lives, chances are you have tried to tear their walls down. More than likely you have discovered, the
only one who has the capacity to deconstruct these kinds of barricades is the
one who built them. What do you do?
A few weeks ago I was pondering this question with some colleagues
and an image came to mind which reminded me of a story. The image was of a wall at the Hanoi
Hilton. Its official title was the Hỏa
Lò Prison. It housed prisoners of
war held by the North Vietnamese. There they tortured
and interrogated captured servicemen, mostly American pilots shot down during
bombing raids. The goal was to break the
will of the men so they could get them to sign statements which could use for propaganda
purposes. These were terrible walls to
be trapped behind.
The physical torture could be madding. So could the isolation. They were imprisoned in a small room, maybe 6’ by
7’, with no windows. They scarcely saw the sun. All this was intentional. As author John Borling, who was a prisoner of
war in Hanoi, shares in his book, Taps on the Walls, “The enemy wanted them
weak, despondent and totally cut off.”
To combat the isolation he men bean to devise ways of
communicating with one another. They
would carve messages on the latrine walls, they would scratch words on objects
they would leave behind for one another, and they developed a code which would
allow them to tap messages to one another through the walls. This tapping allowed them to maintain the chain
of command, pass on information, encourage one another and pray for each other. Maybe most importantly, it broke
through the isolation and let the men know they were not alone. The tapping shined light in a very dark place,
and smuggled hope behind walls where it seemed impossible to find. It was a lifeline which allowed them to
endure until the walls finally fell in March of 1973 and they were released.
Thinking about these images and the story behind them, I
could not help but wonder if the best thing we can offer to those we love who
are trapped behind walls which were erected to protect, but which now isolate,
is the kindness of tapping. We may not
be able to demolish the wall, but we can stand on the other side and faithfully
tap messages of hope which allowed them to know they are not alone. Messages which may enable the courage
necessary to tear down their walls to well up inside of them.
There is great power, and healing in knowing someone is there,
refusing to allow a stone barrier to separate them from you. I have to imagine when a new prisoner first
heard the tapping they were not sure what to make of it. They knew someone was
there and they were trying to communicate, but they could not decipher the
code. Eventually, the random raps on the
wall would begin to make sense and they would begin to decode words. These words would turn into sentences,
thoughts, encouragement, and hope. How grateful
they must have been that the person on the other side of the wall kept tapping
long enough for them to come to that place.
I have to imagine the same is true for those who are trapped
behind the invisible walls which cut them off from the capacity to be known and
loved. They may not understand the
tapping when it is first heard, but given time they will begin to decode
it. They will recognize it as an
invitation to hope, trust, and to take the risk of tearing down the walls which
separate them from others. When they decipher
this, they will also discover hope.
Toward that end, I say, keep tapping.
