The Tale of Hamathy

Once, when I was very young, my mother told me the story of a place called Hamathy. Now, Hamathy was a small town, more of a village, really, nestled deep in a faraway mountain range where the snow shone pure as starlight and sharp white peaks stood stark against the blinding blue of the sky. Hamathy's few streets were lined with fine wood houses, and though their windows sparkled with frost, inside each fireplace flames burned hot and high, and the people of the town were warm and safe and in the company of those that they loved.

One day, though no one knows what caused it, an avalanche began on the mountain where Hamathy stood. What seemed to be an ocean of snow crashed down its picturesque slopes, and when all was once more still and quiet, the town was miraculously untouched, but the one road that passed through Hamathy and out into the world was blocked in both directions.

The people of Hamathy were smart—they knew that something like this could happen one day, and they had taken precautions. Stacks of firewood and shelves of food, water, and anything else they might need filled every shed and basement. There were enough supplies to last weeks, perhaps even months, and so, after diligently checking to ensure that each of their neighbors were safe and sound, the people of Hamathy went home and settled in to wait, secure in the knowledge that help would arrive long before they were in any danger.

But as days went by, then weeks, and no sign of rescuers appeared on the horizon, the people began to realize that perhaps their town, their refuge from the noise and chaos of the larger world, was perhaps just a little too far from all that hustle and bustle. And when a full month had passed, and still no one came for them, it seemed all too certain that no one beyond the mountains was aware of their predicament, much less coming to help.

The people of Hamathy, however, were not afraid of a little labor. So on the first day of the second month after the avalanche, a meeting was called, and they all bundled into the town hall to work out how they would rescue themselves.

Hamathy didn't have a snow plow, but what it had in abundance were shovels and the hands to wield them, and so it was decided that they would dig their way out. A work schedule was arranged, people volunteered for shifts, and it seemed that everything was going smoothly. Only near the end of the meeting did someone raise a very important point—they had neglected to discuss the direction in which they would dig.

A simple issue, it would seem, and yet it turned out to be the most contentious one of all. Before long, the whole hall had erupted in arguments between those who wanted to excavate the road to the north and those who preferred to head south. Some had family on one side or the other, others were concerned about the steepness of the south road, and still others worried that the closest town to the north was much farther away, but nearly everyone, it seemed, had a strong opinion on the matter.

When the sun began to set, and no progress had been made on reaching a decision, it was suggested that everyone go home before the deadly cold of night set in, and they could come back the next day, when tempers were cooler and the air was warmer. This, at least, was agreed by all to be a sensible idea, and so the people of Hamathy put their coats back on and dispersed in the fading light.

For two more days, the debate raged on inside the town hall. But when the third sunset came, and still they could not agree on north or south, they decided instead to dig in both directions, and each person could choose for themselves where to work. By this time, it seemed clear to everyone that there simply was no agreement to be had, and after all, it made no sense to delay the beginning of work for a consensus that was never going to come.

The next morning, the first shifts of workers set out in each direction, nodding tersely in greeting as they passed one another in the street. The work was hard and the wind was blistering, but at the end of the day, everyone was much happier than the night before. At least now they were doing something, instead of sitting around and waiting.

A week went by, and spirits were higher than ever. Progress was speeding along in both directions, and the greetings had upgraded from stern-faced nods to waves and smiles.

It took another month and a half after that for the supplies to run out. It was actually the firewood that was used up first, and with no way to heat their homes, the people of Hamathy piled once more into the town hall and kept each other alive as best they could with the warmth of their bodies. That worked well enough, but there was also no way to melt their now-frozen water or thaw, much less cook, their now-frozen food, and soon enough, people began to die, one after another after another.

Still, every day, the workers went out to the north and the south and dug and dug until they could dig no more, hoping and praying with every breath that today would be the day that they made it through to the other side and help was at last in reach. And every day, fewer and fewer of them trudged back into town with heavy hearts, those hopes and prayers yet unanswered.

It was on the final day of their fourth month in isolation that the last of them finally died, shovel still in hand as he drew his last breath.

Here's the funny thing—well, perhaps funny isn't exactly the right word, but—either way would have worked. When the last citizen of Hamathy succumbed to the cold, both of the paths were well over halfway to completion. If only they could have set aside their differences and agreed on a direction to take, every person in Hamathy would likely have survived—though "if only," I imagine, would be of little comfort to the people who mourned them.

You may be wondering why, in the name of all that's holy, my mother chose to tell a young child such a disturbing story. I think the lesson she wanted me to take from it was about the folly of pride and the virtue of cooperation--when my brother and I would fight, for instance, over what game to play, she would say, "Remember Hamathy," and I would quickly decide that it was better to play hide-and-seek for the eighteenth time that day than to be saddled with extra chores and not get to play at all. And, to be fair to her, it was a valuable lesson, and I certainly did learn it.

The problem, I think, is that I was the only one who knew about Hamathy. My brother never had the dubious pleasure of hearing that particular story, and so it was always I who gave in. The lesson my mother didn't mean to teach me, but that I nevertheless learned all too well, was that it was my job, my duty to sacrifice, and that if I didn't, my selfishness would be to blame for the conflict or catastrophe that followed.

I'm sure you'll all be shocked to hear that, at the tender age of twenty-three, I burned out. Lost my job, lost most of my friends. Lost myself for a little while, too. I'm doing much better now, but the road to where I am today was a long and hard one.

So, in the hope of passing on my mother's wisdom but not repeating her mistakes, here's a lesson from Hamathy that I learned a little early, and one from me that I learned a little late: don't fight with people you care about over things that don't matter, and stand up for yourself over things that do.