"I want to read you something that I always read
whenever I feel
frustrated, and when things aren't going right," she told me.
She sat down across from me and opened her crumpled piece of paper, a
paper that had been folded and unfolded at least several hundred times
before. She began to read from a brief essay called, "The Station,"
by
R. J. Hastings. It is an essay that has been vastly distributed.
It is one
of those "meaning of life" essays that contain simple, brief, neatly said
truths, that become trite practically before they are distributed.
And as she reached the end, a tear released from the corner of her eye
and left a wet track down her brown cheek. Her voice cracked, and
she
sobbed that sob that she does whenever she breaks my heart as she
neared the end.
"'It isn't the burdens of the day that drive people mad. It is the
regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow."' She looked up
at me
with her brown eyes, not bothering to wipe away the moist memories of her
own regrets and fears. "Think about that," she told me. "Think
about
that when you write about peace."
It was January 18, 2003, and two days before the
national celebration
of Martin Luther King, Jr. As we drove toward San Francisco I thought
of the civil rights march in Selma, the life and death struggles to put
an end
to Jim Crow. My thoughts expanded to frame the 1960's, the protests
against
the war in Vietnam. I remembered the lies told by our leadership
in order to
push Americans to support an immoral war. I remembered a generation
that
was once proud to be the first generation to end, rather than win a war.
I remembered a generation that was once proud to stand up to White House
abuse of power, and to win rather than to capitulate. I remembered
a generation
that seemed to understand better than any of its predecessors that compassion
always wins more allies than bombs.
Cosette and I joined Alma and Brian in San Francisco, meeting them in
Glen Park, on the other side of town from the rally. There was to
be one child
among us, who's name is Ian. I wondered if his memories of this moment
would
comport with the proclaimed history of it in years hence. The streets
of the small
community were full. We passed people carrying signs of protest.
"No WAR in IRAQ!" "No BLOOD for OIL!" "Not in MY name!"
Our band entered the Glen Park BART station, and we found that our ride
to the San Francisco rally would be free this day. The gates to the
train platforms
opened wide, the lines at the ticket dispensers broke apart, and shortly
people, signs,
musical instruments, back packs, and strollers swarmed onto the downtown
train.
We pressed in like sardines. Occasional anti-war chants match the
cadence of the
wheels thumping over the underground tracks. "One, two, three, four,
we don't want your oil war!"
"I hear there are 300,000 in DC," said a voice somewhere in the throng.
"Great, great!" cheered another.
We were late for the beginning of the rally. We got off one stop
early, hoping to join the marchers somewhere in the middle of their journey
to Civic Center. We emerged from the train station amid thousands.
There was the din of drum beats, of shouting, of chanting. The street
was so packed that some found refuge by climbing up trees, sitting on the
tops of bus stop shelters, pressing themselves into door jams. People
hung peace signs from the windows of commercial high rises.
Helicopters circled overhead.
And all of the faces were uniquely American or of America. Elderly
couples walked side by side, some being pushed in wheelchairs. Fathers
and mothers tied banners to their children to keep them from getting lost
in the crowd, and smaller children rode on Dad's strong shoulders.
Their were white faces; brown, black, and yellow, and some were painted
with peace signs on their foreheads and cheeks. Every religion was
represented; Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists. Palestinians stood
side
by side with Israelis. "Talk not Blood; Words not Bombs!"
Some were homeless, some were wealthy. Two women in Ann Taylor coats
tended to a dirty unconscious women and used their cell phones to call
for medical help. A man in a three piece suit stood in the financial
district raising a sign that read, "I don't want a war! I want my
job
back!" A half a block away, a sports fan held up a sign showing the
Oakland Raiders' jolly roger, with George W. Bush's face wearing the helmet
and eye patch. "I said, 'Raider Nation,' not 'Raid Other Nations!'"
The train that brought our band of five to downtown this day was packed
with folks on the way to the rally, even though we left for the rally
late. I would imagine that nearly every train in San Francisco suffered
the same, not to mention the bridges and the ferries.
As we neared the Civic Center plaza, we could hear the beautiful voice
of Joan Baez. Déjà vu all over again? No, this
was different than
anything that I remember from the late sixties. Those protests had
started in a youth movement and recruited diversity over time. This
march
was almost as though it had picked up from where the marches against the
Vietnam war had left off. Perhaps a brow-beaten generation can
rediscover its pride in that its prayer for peace still lingers.
Occasionally on route, there stood a couple of stoic police officers,
with riot gear attached to their belts. They were largely bored because
there was so little sign of crime or violence among the gathered activists.
"Do you know how many," I asked one?
"The guys up in the helicopter are estimating 60 some-odd thousand.
But I've been right here for two hours, and it's never let up in the
number of people who have passed by. It's got to be well over 300,000.
Maybe 400,000. The plaza is packed, so I'm guessing a lot of people
are
just dispersing when they get there."
He was right. When our band reached the Civic Center there was no
room
to squeeze through bodies. The more athletic were perched on tree
tops, some had climbed light poles, and others were sitting on top of
busses that had brought them from other states, and even other countries.
Cosette and I decided to drift on homeward and to "disperse."
Arriving back at Glen Park, Cosette and I got in the car and turned on
the radio. A woman from one of the many goose step radio stations
was
angrily defending George W. Bush. (Why is it that one of the most
liberal cities in the nation only has goose step radio when one of the
conditions of broadcast licensing is that a broadcaster must "serve" the
community?) She was explaining to a caller why George W. Bush should
ignore the economy and begin a war with Iraq. "George Bush doesn't
care
about your job," she told the caller, "he's trying to protect your life."
George W. Bush doesn't care about so many things. He doesn't care
about
the Constitution, and most especially about the Bill of Rights. He
doesn't care
about this nation's word of honor to other nations. He doesn't care
about racism,
health care, or starvation within our own nation's borders.
"Being against the war is patriotic," proclaimed many of the signs at the
rally.
Such is a reflection of the unique view of patriotism created by our founding
fathers.
We pledge our lives and sacred honor to the defense of liberty. George
W. Bush
would have us pledge our liberty, and render it to him, for our lives.
But to have
marched in this rally, one becomes aware that there may be a new movement,
not only here but throughout the world, where people pledge their lives
to the
defense of peace, that long neglected sibling of liberty.
Volunteer 'Human Shields' to Head for Iraq By Andrew Cawthorne
LONDON (Reuters) - A first wave of mainly Western volunteers will leave
London this weekend on a convoy bound for Iraq to act as "human
shields" at key sites and populous areas in case of a U.S.-led war on Baghdad.
"The potential for white Western body parts flying around with the Iraqi
ones
should make them think again about this imperialist oil war," organizer
Ken Nichols,
a former U.S. marine in the 1991 Gulf War, told Reuters.
His "We the People" organization will be sending off a first group of
50 human shields from the London mayor's City Hall building Saturday,
part of a series of departures organizers say will involve hundreds,
possibly thousands, of volunteers.
Nichols' planned human shield convoys are one of several such efforts
around the world to mobilize activists in Iraq as a deterrent against
military strikes on Baghdad. (January 21, 2003)
Could it be that this time around we will leave no regrets from
yesterday, and extinguish the fear of tomorrow by pledging our very lives
for
peace on this day? For it is only in peace that mankind will find
the
security of liberty, and neither can long survive without the other.
Liberty and peace are Siamese twins, and surgery is impossible.
"Out on the edge of darkness, there rides a peace train.
Peace train take this country. Come take me home again!"
- Cat Stevens