History reveals the dark as well as the light side of human behavior.
Mame
SACRIFICED SCAPEGOAT YOUTHS
copyright©Helene Smith 2012
archaic child-killing altars
and blood
stained battlefields
"Children of the world are the most precious
gifts"–Mother Teresa of Macedonia
Abraham in BCE–before the common era of
biblical times–threw down his knife poised to stab his little boy Isaac for a
burnt offering to appease early mythological gods brought on by fear and
superstition, the first form of man's religion. His evolving conscience told him to stop–what he believed
was a divine voice in an ancient story.
The world had become mesmerized by atrocious, vicious words that man
spits out with little thought of the diabolical shock in sacrificing the most
treasured gifts– human life–what makes our world go around. It is beyond comprehension to fully
envision the impact of such historical slaughter–youth killing loaded with
shock of the macabre.
The
following true story of man–short for human–is fictionalized since no one
living ever witnessed the horrific violence of our primitive ancestors. We only can see the impact of our
present society's terrorism. The
account you are about to read is taken from ancient prehistoric graphics etched
in stone and later-day ancient archives mirroring barbaric violence done to
children the world over.
Since
there is no scarcity of kids on the third planet from the sun, it is sad to
realize youths today have also become expendable to man as war fodder, as well
as burnt offerings to the gods. At
least that is what some modern-day born-again leaders ruthlessly say, blaming a
deity, "God told me to go war!"–with untold thousands of youths
sacrificed as the committers, out of harm's way, getting away with murder.
Now
open your eyes to a wild, horrific scene as the heavens depart in an uproar of
loud rumbles resembling the beat of drums and the clanging of brass cymbals
during the worst possible electrical storm you can imagine. Below the turmoil a ghastly drama of
Earth is going on. Frightened
primitive men sit within a huge rock shelter stage deciding what must be done
to appease their imagined deities.
Surely the mortals had done something wrong that angered at least one of
their gods.
This
small family community was governed by long-haired whiskered men who were
domineering over their fur-covered women we would call "wives–especially
scared out of their wits–not by the storm but by the men that ruled over
them. Coming
into focus now the group of men are huddled together at the entrance of the
cave. They are tending a roaring
fire surrounded by primeval virgin oak trees overlooking an ancient sea.
Before
the storm rolled in with loud claps of thunder, a full moon shone on a sandy
beach below the cliff. Two night
owls sitting on a tree branch are oblivious to the scene they are about to witness
within a shadowy cavern lit by streaks of lightning and the glow of the fire–in
reality a bone fire, remnants of Homo Sapiens's carnivorous meals–what would
later be called a bonfire from bones of burned people during the religious
Inquisition that worked in cahoots with the Roman Government and later the
Spanish government that tortured man–stretched to death on crudely-made
machines or burned alive on wooden stakes.
Meanwhile
early cave men worked diligently around the blazing fire. They also could not
foresee the world of early crosses, row upon row, on soldiers' graves, no
matter what their religion happened to be, and whether or not the deceived were
atheists or agnostics. In their
world superstitious faith ruled
their minds and was passed down to their children. Proselytizing wars and their
blood sacrifice are the bane of the world.
Nevertheless,
the aborigines had built an altar from green tree branches covered with a piece
of leather from a she-wolf who was the first to live in the cavern with her
cubs and mate. Several of these
early dwellers had placed a ring of abalone and other large shells around the
circle of hide, now flaming hot.
Within
the deep recesses of the rock shelter a group of little children are playing.
The raging storm is out of earshot and didn't concern them. They are racing
around the inner catacombs with utmost glee–as one by one, each from total
exhaustion–drops down to a bed
of animal furs to sleep for the night, with imagined dreams of angels all about
them.
Between
the men and children is a group of stalwart women, some with babes in
arms. A young mother-to-be in
extreme pain is giving birth as a mid-wife helps her through excruciating
labor. Now a robust male infant is
seen emerging from his mother's warm womb. The aide slaps the babe to make him breathe, cleanses him
and wraps him in soft swaddling kid leather. His mother weakly reaches out for her son.
Suddenly,
before she has a chance to cradle him in her loving arms, the women all brace
themselves as the largest man of the clan enters the birthing alcove and looks
down at the woman he knew the most, in a biblical sense. His eyes reflect awe
and compassion for his loved one lying on a soft bed at his feet. As he gazes into her exhausted eyes,
now filled with fear and tears, he kneels down and kisses her lips and those of
his son.
But
at the same time he needs to get a grip on his mixed emotions. He perceives a poignant brotherhood
pledge to his male cult, while at the same time realizing that all men start
out as females with teats, as women can then be equipped to use them to nourish
their infants. The man's flashback
soon dissipates as he steels himself for action. He reminds himself of his grisly mission to make the
tormenting storm go away.
He
is mortified by reality, for he must
now take his own new-born son instead of a child from the flock among
sleeping children–male rule, not by any god, and certainly no goddess, but by men themselves. This ghoulish sacrifice involves the
clan's youngest born, with women silenced from speaking out. Now the female throng begins to gather
around the new mother with anxiety, anticipating what they knew would happen,
with some already experiencing the unbearable trauma.
Immediately
confronted by the women, the man's former feelings change to anger, with his
face and neck turning red with emotion.
Physically he strikes out against resistance with great force to do what
he believes he's compelled to do–with machismo peer pressure stoking his
action. He forces the women away
and grabs the infant from reluctant hands of his mother. Now
her family members in unison raise their voices in howling rebellious dissent
and grief echoing throughout the cavern.
But the voice of his mother excels all the others. The entire force of
women murmur helplessly in tones of sorrow and compassion.
The
father quickly makes his exit and returns to his cohorts with the whimpering
bundle that was now vociferously protesting denial to suckle his mother's
milk. But the man could not
tolerate the shrieks. In lack of
control he shook his son so vigorously the infant almost succumbed from the
violence in his newly formed brain.
Back
at the gruesome ritual circle the shadows of his male comrades, ignorant of
nature's wisdom, looked more like grotesque monsters of sorcery and man-made
magic than men. After handling the
squirming, crying babe to the leader of the clan–who in later centuries would
be called a priest–the father of the newborn hesitates before giving up his
son. He finally takes the empty
fur blanket and moves back into the darkness of the sacrificial den where he
weeps in seclusion, unnoticed by his fellow men.
As
the fire begins to die down to flickering flames and hot, sparkles of ashes,
the priest coils the infant's umbilical cord in a circle on top of his little
abdomen. He then slices off a tiny piece of his flesh from his foreskin and
offers it up to his male god over everything–including man's reasoning power,
with maddening superstition overwhelmingly taking over his own brain.
The priest quickly drinks a potion to
numb his senses as he lays the small body of flesh, quivering fresh from his
mother's womb, onto the hot leather altar surrounded by shells to collect the
victim's blood. In later years
baby animals were substituted for these dreadful religious acts dredged up from
ancient cults. Newborn goats were often offered up as burnt offerings, as the
name kid–for child–became associated with these murderous scapegoat acts.
The
predominantly base voices of all the men now rose up in a loud chant to block
out the screams of the babe twisting in pain. The primitive priest with eyes flaming from drinking
the bitter brew to give him false courage, suddenly picks up a hand knife made
from carved flint and quickly stifles the child's disturbing cries, all
performed by men for a man-made god of their choice. After
he stabs the helpless victim who had experienced Earth only for a few moments
of time, the infant screams out his last breath. The leader then pierces the babe's chest and pulls out the little bleeding
heart. He holds it up to mortal
god of thunder and lightening, before eating it. Ancient deities are mortal, since as one dies off another
one crops up with history repeating itself over and over again.
Coincidently, at the same time a final streak of lighting
strikes some unseen ironwood tree in the woodlands. Violent storm clouds roll
away with the thunder now muffled in the distance. The men crouch down with their eyes cast on the ground as if
in prayer revealing a horrible ritual to make their god or gods happy. The ruthless ceremony was successful in
their mindset.
Little
did they observe that even if they had done nothing at all, the raging storm
would have ceased on its own. They were convinced their human sacrifice was a
rite that became a wrong from man's dark past.
Fire
was part of their religion–eternal blazing hell, a device also used to threaten
children if they misbehaved, with no child made better as a result. Later-day warriors also consumed the
hearts of their slain enemies for added false courage and strength from their
opposition.
The men now gather around the altar. The
aborigines smelled the burned oak and savored the aroma of human flesh, as
their leader collected the shells filled with hot blood and drank of it before
passing it out to their accomplices. The priest then divided the roasted infant
and also shared its portions–all part of a savage, cannibalistic ritual.
The
storm clouds have completely abated. Outside the moon-lit cavern the cry of the
great horned owls are stifled through leaves into a soft hooting, the sound of
mourning. But now they have moved
close to one another, their feathers intertwined.
They
are horrified and in shock, freaked out as they clutch the tree branch. Their large wise-looking eyes wide open
in horror focus on the men below, the scene of the crime. The pair were used to caring for their
own little ones in a nest after their double "births."–the first when
the mother lays her eggs followed by warming and hatching–as the chicks open
their shells with their beaks for the second birth. Although severe storms concern them as they watch over and
protect their young, they were never disturbed by supernatural unknowns or were
driven to kill their protegy–the wonder of life so precious. They live in
nature and respect it, not burdened by human fears reflected in rival religion
and politics.
From
man's beginning another gory sacrifice is carried out on urban war zones where
children play and are killed.
Burnt offering also pertains to youths sacrificed on these battlefields
in the name of "God our Father and Country." Yet no intelligent, loving
patriarch could ever be happy over his creations killing one another in hot
blood. No aggression or ingrained
religious blood rite–neither human
nor animal–ever helped any war-torn, occupied country whose inhabitants grieve
and suffer from scorch and burn mindsets.
A
Hebrew commandment states, "Thou shalt not kill." Children in a Judeo-Christian milieu
are taught this wisdom–the same value system taught to secular children–the
latter that does not subscribe to dogma.
Yet kids from time memorial are the brunt of brutal killing and rape, also
prevalent in male wars.
"To reach peace in the
world we shall have to begin with children."–Mohandas Mahatma Gandhi"
"War loves to seek its
victims in the young."–Herodotus, ancient father of Greek history
