© copyright 2007 Betsy L. Angert
It may have been a January evening; perhaps it was earlier. The year was 2003. I was living in Orange County, California. I saw Gretchen as I exited the pool. She and I were newly acquainted. Quickly we realized we shared a solid belief; war is not an option! On this night, Gretchen mentioned there was a peace vigil at the corner of Anton and Bristol in Costa Mesa. Protestors were gathering across from one of the swankiest market places in the nation, South Coast Plaza. Certainly, Americans would be there, for in 2001, after the Twin Towers fell President Bush and Vice President Cheney encouraged citizens to go shopping.
In an afternoon conversation, Gretchen’s son spoke of the event. He had been in the past and she was on her way there now. She asked if I would like to join her. I am as far from spontaneous as a person can be. Nevertheless, there are times when principles are more important than habits. Neither of us hesitated. Gretchen did not have to convince me to go. We attended our first peace vigil together. We were there within minutes. That was the beginning of an all too long and all too important series of protests.
The Orange County Peace Coalition organized that event and many others. Gretchen and I attended most rallies. We marched; we sat, and we sang, all in hopes of promoting the philosophy, “Give Peace a Chance!”
Each of us was present at Coalition meetings. We were willingly part of the peace movement! Gretchen and I pleaded for harmony before the first bombs fell in Iraq. We were appalled by the attacks in Afghanistan. We had read too much.
On Monday, October 29th [2001], citing Reuters, The Times of India reported from Kabul, “a US bomb flattened a flimsy mud-brick home in Kabul on Sunday blowing apart seven children as they ate breakfast with their father. The blast shattered a neighbour’s house killing another two children . . . the houses were in a residential area called Qalaye Khatir near a hill where the hard-line Taliban militia had placed an anti-aircraft gun.”
The Afghan town of Charikar, 60 kms north of Kabul, has been the recipient of many US bombs and missiles. On Saturday, November 17th, US bombs killed two entire families — one of 16 members and the other of 14 — perished, together in the same house.
On the same day, bomb strikes in Khanabad near Kunduz, killed 100 people. A refugee, Mohammed Rasul, recounts himself burying 11 people, pulled out of ruins there [ibid].
Multiply these scenes by a couple hundred and the reality on-the-ground in the Afghan October and November is approximated. This same reality is blithely dismissed by the Pentagon and the compliant U.S. corporate media with “the claims could not be independently verified.” Whereas the military press calls reports of high civilian casualties as being “inflated by air.” Another comments on the “humanity of the air war.” Yet another, wails about too much press coverage of civilian casualties by a media unable to understand that some civilian casualties must occur but that “what IS newsworthy is that so many bombs hit their targets.”
Afghanistan was and is a country living in the Stone Age. After eons of war. life is hard for all that live there, harder still since 2001. With thanks to America there is a constant threat of death. Yet, our Western civilized society bombs this nation, its homes, and inhabitants again and again.
Gretchen and I could not understand why further destruction was necessary. Killing innocent non-combatants, mostly children seemed senseless to us. It still does. When considering the conditions in Afghanistan the need for civilian deaths is more confusing.
Gretchen and I wanted no war. Revenge did not and does not make sense to us. Battle does not seem an apt solution. Thus, we ventured out on that night and demonstrated against the war in the Middle East. As we asked for withdrawal, Bush proposed escalation. Gretchen and I participated each week in Friday night vigils.
Then it was evident. George W. Bush was planning an attack on Iraq. There was no stopping him. Nevertheless, we wanted to be heard. On March 19, a special service was held. We knew that the bombs would fall, now, over Iraq.
Four years ago tonight, March 19, 2003, Gretchen, and I held our breath. We still do. However, throughout the years we tired at times. Eggs were thrown at us. A few times cars careened up onto the sidewalk, attempting to mow us down. Police were called out to protect us, the protestors. We wanted peace; however, we were very much alone. The majority of Americans, or at least those in a conservative county, were against us.
Life went on in America. It seemed many were untouched by the wars. However, Gretchen and I were in tatters. Our hearts hurt. We could not ignore what was, even if the combat took place on fields far from homes, it affected us.
The war filled our minds and took up much of our time. Gretchen and I were part of one event, then another. Often, each week, hours of our lives were consumed in a “fight” against the wars. Gretchen and I attended seminars, sought out information. We painted signs, built crosses, stars of David, and crescent moons. We mounted these in the sand and presented a facsimile of Arlington Cemetery. I logged the number of allied deaths, picked flowers for the fallen, and spoke in defense of the soldiers.
Weeks became months. Months turned into years. I moved to Florida. Gretchen stayed in California and continued to speak out, though she chose to be slightly less involved. As I acclimated to this new locale, I too reduced my participation. I wrote more and marched less. I looked for political activists and found most were nowhere near my neighborhood. I did see some at the corner, across the street from a shopping center here.
Tonight, I joined them. I held a “Peace, not War!” sign on a local street corner. My arm was extended. My index and middle fingers formed the sign of peace. Now living in a Red State, though a Blue community, horns were honking continuously. The turn-out was not huge, though the Progressive population in Florida seems less politically involved. Possibly, it is that I have not been here long enough to know what is happening. It is my hope to learn more and to participate fully again.
I suspect here in Florida, many were mired in Bush haze for years. Perchance they had given up. With George in the White House and Jeb in the State House, residents in Florida may have felt they had no power. There was no reason to believe. I know I was disillusioned this November as I read that twenty-three percent of the Democrats were planning to vote Republican.
I understand from long time residents, change in this southern state is exceedingly slow. Nevertheless, in the last few months, I sense glimmers of hope. A transformation seems possible. Perhaps, that is just a dream, one that many of us share. Nonetheless . .
Tonight, as I held my sign, fellow protestors spoke of this. The times they are a changing. Transformation is in the wind. The young and old are rising up. Children gathered with their parents at the corner where we stood, Youngsters, less than five years of age held up their signs and chanted words of peace.
The white-haired man standing at my side said, this was his first time, his virginal vigil. He grabbed a sign that expressed his sentiment, “Grandfather saying bring our troops home!”
Later, a middle aged man pulled up near the curb in a late model Sports Utility Vehicle. A elderly gentleman accompanied him; he was sitting in the passenger seat. The light was red; the driver, the younger of the two, stopped. He opened his car door, jumped out, and dashed to the far side of the vehicle. In the back seat, there was a folding chair. The younger man placed the structure on the lawn within the crowd of protestors. The senior citizen exited the car, sat in the seat now stable on the grass. He took a sign and joined those requesting “Exit Iraq!”
This evening I thought of Gretchen. I wondered; were Californians, even in a Republican ruled Orange County now ready to end this futile folly. Were they too saying “It is time to leave!” “Impeach Bush!” “Bring our soldiers home now!” Has this nation, long divided found a reason to unite? Might peace be the answer. Let us give peace a chance, please!
Betsy L. Angert
BeThink.org