If you break it down,
our word atonement is a combination of three parts: at+one+ment. It is unclear
if this is the actual etymology of the word, but there does seem to be a
connection with a medieval Latin word for “unity.”
My own definition for the word atonement, or rather the act
of making atonement, is “paying the necessary reparations to bring together two
parties (people) who had been separated because of a wrong done or an injury.”
There may be a better definition for the word, but that is
mine. With that, we can see that although the word atonement is much different
than kippur, both describe the act relating to paying a ransom in order to
redeem someone. And, by that act, we are bringing together two people who were
separated. It is an at+one+ment.
We live in days of international terrorism, and we often hear of people being kidnapped and held for ransom by some terrorist organization. In our country we have a policy similar to that of many countries, in that “we will never negotiate or pay ransom to terrorists.” I agree with that policy, but I admit that it seems a rather cold and detached way of dealing with the fact that someone has been separated from the people that they love.
Living with the Threat
In the late 1990’s and early 2000’s our family lived in
Venezuela near the Colombian border. These were the years of extreme terrorism
being carried out by the then strong Colombian drug cartels and terrorist
organizations, such as FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia). The
border between Colombia and Venezuela was quite porous, so the Colombian
guerillas passed easily between the two nations.
Kidnappings were not infrequent in the area of our frontier
town, especially in the last couple years that we lived there. These were
mostly kidnappings of people from wealthy families who were then held for
ransom. We were not wealthy, so I did not feel that we were in too much danger—at
least I did not until in the final months, when the kidnappings began to take
on political overtones. It was then that kidnapping a family member from the
only American family living on that area of the border could have its
motivations.
It began to become worrisome for Vivian and me. In the final
weeks that we were in that town, I began to form the habit of walking around
town to visit the panadarias (bakeries) to have a bit of coffee and to find out
the overnight local news from the various shopkeepers. The panadarias were the
only places open in that time of day, so it was like getting the early morning local
news.
I would say that at least once a week, a child or wife of
some family of the area had been kidnapped and held for ransom. One morning the
shopkeepers told me of one family receiving an envelope containing the severed
finger of one of their sons, along with the ransom note.