The sound of silence

I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

— Simon & Garfunkel, 1970s American folk-rock singers THE TEARS flowed freely through the silence.

Hundreds gathered at St Ann’s Square in Manchester, England; they cried, prayed and stood in solidarity for those who died, for their sense of loss. I didn’t want to watch any more, but the incessant droning of local politicians and self-important morning talk-show hosts sent me back to the BBC.

The obvious pain felt by those crying in the square forced my own tears. I didn’t know the people who died, but I couldn’t help thinking that the little eight-yearold girl who perished could have been one of my relatives; surely her own family is now left to deal with the torture of her passing.

Intellectually, I am not immune to the imbalance of global media coverage. Human pain and suffering in the Western world occupy priority of time and space. The abduction of hundreds of girls by terrorist group Boko Haram in Nigeria needed the superstar power of Michelle Obama and other famous names to keep attention focused on their plight.

Children in Syria are no longer startled at bomb explosions, but their story is not told consistently, while, according to UNICEF, some 150 million children worldwide are still forced into child labour, predominantly in less-developed nations. Closer to home, global media are long bored of the struggles of Haitian people, even though a great deal of their struggles were exacerbated by Western aid agencies. Still, emotionally, the minute of silence affected me. In a world drowning in physical and Internet-based noise, silence is powerful.

Interestingly, as noted by the Independent newspaper, as early as 1910, the death of King Edward VII was marked by a minute’s silence.

“So was the news of the sinking of the Titanic, in 1912.” Artists know the power of silence, using it for effect in films, the dance world and in music. Silence is a dramatic contrast in the performance, allowing for reflection and to emphasise what was just portrayed.

Silence as a form of respect emerged in prominence after the First World War, 1914-1918.

There seems to be some debate, but sources indicate that in 1919, South African politician Sir Percy Fitzpatrick recommended that victory in the war should be commemorated by an action typically reserved for honouring the dead.

He felt that quiet reflection would be better than boastful joy.

The gesture was later made official by King George V on November 17, 1919, by proclamation.

“On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, there may be for the brief space of two minutes a complete suspension of all our normal activities. All locomotion should cease so that in perfect stillness, the thoughts of everyone may be concentrated on reverent remembrance of the glorious dead.” After the Second World War, 1939-1945, the two-minute silence was extended to remembering the dead of both wars, now called Remembrance Day.

I believe the moment of silence caused me to think of all the fake news we turn into national issues, and the chaos and corruption threatening to cripple any chance of us becoming a functioning nation.

I’m sure I’m not the only citizen that would like to silence politicians, talk-show hosts, social media pundits and special interest lobbyists. In the perfect stillness today, I searched for answers. Like the people in Manchester, nothing came, except tears.

Dara Healy is a performance a r t - ist and founder of the N G O , the Ind i g e - n o u s Creative A r t s Network – ICAN :