On 20th April, two students of Columbine High School in Denver, Colorado, carried out a well-planned massacre in their school with semi-automatic weapons and home-made bombs. Fifteen died. Iwan Russell-Jones reflects on the language of violence and America's worship of the gun.

As I've watched and read the reports of what took place at Columbine High School last Tuesday – events that were, at the same time, sickening, incomprehensible and obscenely riveting – time and time again words and images from Pearl Jam's rock video, 'Jeremy', have come into my mind.

Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were unique individuals. The evil that they unleashed in Littleton was unquestionably of their own making. But the same tortured and perverse forces that are so disturbingly portrayed in 'Jeremy' seem to have shaped and destroyed them, too.

Pearl Jam's video, made in 1992, tells the true story of a boy who, in the ominous, oft-repeated words of the song, spoke in class today. Jeremy is a disturbed and unhappy child. Daddy doesn't pay attention. Mommy only cares about her clothes. Classmates ridicule him. And the serpent, who is more subtle than all the other creatures, finds an opportunity.

The 'harmless little fuck' of the song, frustrated by years of inattention at home and being picked on at school, begins – like Harris and Klebold – to fantasize about an ultimate victory over his enemies. He draws pictures of mountaintops with him on top and the dead lying in pools of maroon below. In his imagination he creates a world in which he, King Jeremy the wicked, rules supreme. And his bitterness and anger gather strength until, finally, they are given utterance.

Jeremy spoke in class today.

He speaks through violence. Striding into school after the lesson has already begun, he blows his brains out before his tormentors. Try to forget this, try to erase this from the blackboard, he sneers.

An affluent suburb.
3.30 in the afternoon.
64 degrees and cloudy.

Violence is a universal language, spoken and understood around the world, from the drug dealers of Medellin to the ethnic cleansers of Serbia and the racist nail-bombers of London. Even in Britain, despite stringent gun laws, there is no cause to be smug about violence; not during a week in which a TV presenter has been shot dead on the doorstep of her own home. Britain also happens to be one of the world's largest manufacturers and exporters of armaments.

But there's no getting away from the fact that, in the United States, more than almost any other society on the face of the earth, the gun talks. It has its own grammar and vocabulary, its own history and mythology, its own lofty place in the solemn clauses of the constitution. In America, bearing arms has long been elevated to the status of a right, a patriotic duty.

So the gun is more than a gun...

To a nation born in revolution, it is the guarantor of liberty from the oppressor.

To settlers intent on conquest and survival, it is the provider of food, the protector of land.

To citizens beyond the reach of law and order, it is the promise of swift justice.

The gun symbolises a deep-rooted belief in what has been called 'righteous violence', the ability of good individuals to establish truth and social order by force of arms. It's a theme that runs through American history, from the War of Independence to the Alamo; from the Civil War to Desert Storm, and America's current role as a global superpower.

This theme is rooted deep in popular culture, expressed in a thousand cowboy movies and epitomized by stars such as John Wayne and Clint Eastwood. 'Put not your trust in princes,' says the Good Book. But a Smith & Wesson, on the other hand, is an object of faith and trust.

When Charlton Heston and the National Rifle Association protest against any legislation aimed at qualifying the right to bear arms, it is this profound and persistent conviction to which they appeal. Who but criminals and evil-doers stand to gain from disarming upright, moral citizens? As their most famous slogan puts it: 'Guns don't kill people. People kill people.'

Given this mythic status, it's hardly surprising that to those who are struck dumb with alienation, hatred and rage, the gun seems to hold out the promise of an exhilarating, world-conquering eloquence. The ignored, the bored, the put-upon finally get to have their say.

Jeremy spoke in class today.

So too did Eric and Dylan.

They wanted to make their own decisive statements. And in many ways they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, posthumously capturing headlines the world over.

But there is no question, too, that they spoke with the instantly recognizable, cynical and contemptuous accents of popular culture – the Hollywood movies, TV shows and computer games that fed their imaginations and moulded their mental landscapes. Eat this, sucker. Hasta la vista, baby. See this and die.

This is speech that is no speech at all. It's the opposite of speech, the denial of dialogue. It expects no answer, calls for no response, establishes no relationship. It's a vicious snarl, a resentful bellow, a nihilistic howl on the way to oblivion.

Whenever I see Pearl Jam's 'Jeremy', it makes me want to cry – for Jeremy, and now for Eric and Dylan and all the other kids like them, who feel they have never been listened to and so have never learned how to speak; for myself and for you, whose speech so often falls short of dialogue and relationship; and for our culture, in love with images of violence and death.

In times like these it is hard to hope and pray. But hope and prayer have never been more necessary.

© Ship of Fools 1999