An Equal-Opportunity Peace Advocate

Writer’s note:   This column is a sequel to the November 8, 2010, column “War?  What War?” in which Uncle Whitt chastised Ace for his foolish claim that we were a nation at war.  Unfortunately for Ace, he fares no better this time around in an encounter with another neighbor.

*                     *                          *

I found a parking place with twenty minutes still left on it at the side of the courthouse, and hurried out front to catch the peace protestors.  With a little luck, I could finish up and get back to the car before it was time to put another dime in the meter.

Three people were standing on the sidewalk, holding hand-lettered signs and waving when a car happened to drive by.  I didn’t recognize a couple who appeared to be in their seventies, but my heart sank at the sight of the third one, who was all too familiar.  Ms. Carrie Higgins, my former third grade teacher, now a feisty octogenarian.  “How’re you doin’, Ms. Higgins?” I said.  “What’s your sign say?”

She turned, saw who I was, and held her sign up so I could see it.  “You can read it yourself by now, I expect,” she said.  

“Give Peace a Chance,” I read, and nodded.  “We got a news tip that you folks had some pretty controversial messages,” I told her.  “Guess it was accurate.  That’s certainly provocative.  What has the public reaction been to your sign?”

She considered.  “We’ve been coming out here almost every Thursday for nine years, Ace, so your tip is a trifle tardy.  But to answer your question, a lot of people wave at me as if I’m a distant cousin by this time.  Other people give me a thumbs-up or make the peace sign, which is encouraging.”

“How about negative reactions?”

She laughed.  “We get some of those too.  Once in a while somebody scowls and jerks his thumb down.  One gentleman raises his middle digit each week as he drives by.  Some people crank their windows down and yell for us to move to Iraq if we don’t like it here.”

“Why did you laugh?” I asked.

“I laugh because their reactions baffle me,” she said. “Really, now.  ‘Give Peace a Chance’?  How can that be objectionable?  Can you explain that to me?”  

“Well, it’s political, isn’t it?” I said.  

“I’ve often thought about what Colman McCarthy said about politics,” she answered.  “He said the true definition was ‘Who decides where the money goes.’  And in that sense, it’s certainly political.  Do these bitter, angry people really endorse killing women and children, destroying cities, diverting a trillion dollars away from health and education and employment and research and what all, and bringing home horribly wounded and mentally scarred sons and daughters as their return on their tax dollars?”

“I meant political parties,” I said.  “They’re probably Republicans, and you’re criticizing George Bush’s war.”

Ms. Higgins gave a ladylike sniff.  “The last time I looked, Ace, Barack Obama, a Democrat, was president.  Mr. Obama has increased the military budget every year he has been in office and has escalated the wars in Afghanistan and Pakistan.  We are as opposed to his policies as we were to Mr. Bush’s.  I’m an equal-opportunity peace advocate.”

I glanced at my watch.  I still had about four minutes.

“Maybe they see your protest as unpatriotic,” I offered.  “If our country is at war, you should support the war.”

She gave me an appraising look, and I squirmed.  For a minute I was back in an old high-ceilinged classroom with an oiled wooden floor.  “If the war is unjust, am I obliged to back it anyway?” she asked.

“Uh, it’s our country  ....,” I began, and stopped.

“If the war is bankrupting the nation and robbing our children and grandchildren of their future, am I obliged to support it?”

“Well, Ms. Higgins ....”

“If the war is alienating millions of people overseas, turning them into our enemies, and making us less safe in the long run, am I obliged to support it?”

“Well, you know, uh ....”

“If I surrender any moral sense I have, and any critical thinking ability I have, I’m simply a slave of the state, not a free and responsible citizen,” she declared with some passion.  “Are you seriously suggesting that loving your country enough to try to persuade it to halt a disastrous war is unpatriotic?”

Actually I was, I guess.  But I stole a glance at my watch and breathed a quick sigh of relief.  “I wish I had more time to talk with you,” I told her, “but I think I’ve got enough for a story.  If I don’t leave now, I’m liable to get a parking ticket.”

“That’s a convenient excuse, Ace,” she sighed.  “I’m afraid you haven’t changed a great deal in forty years.  When are you going to grow up?”  And she pivoted and resumed waving her sign at cars as they drove past.

© Tony Russell, 2011

"War? What War?"

             If we let people see that kind of thing, there would never again 

be any war. 
                                - Pentagon official explaining why the U.S. military censored
                                  graphic footage from the Gulf War

* * * *

“Ace!  Bob’s on the phone!” called Patty.

Bob didn’t waste any time.  “Ace!” he barked out.  “Get over to the courthouse right now.  There are half a dozen people down there carrying anti-war signs.  It’s the biggest peace protest here in years, and I want you to get some pictures and interview them before they get too cold and head home.”

“I’m on it, Chief,” I assured him, then grabbed my coat and headed out the door.

One of my neighbors, Uncle Whitt, was just walking past the house, dragging his rat terrier Roscoe, who--as usual--was doing his best to lift his leg at every tree, bush, hydrant, gate, and signpost they passed.

“Where are you running off to in such a big hurry, Ace?” he gasped, wheezing from the effort of dragging Roscoe every step around the block.

“There’s a big story down at the courthouse,” I said.  “An anti-war rally.”

He stopped.  “Anti- what?  An anti-war rally?  What war?” he demanded.

“The same war we’ve been in for the last nine years,” I told him, surprised.

“What the Sam Hill are you talking about?” he snapped, staring at me as if I had just claimed visitors in flying saucers had arrived from outer space.  “We’re not at war.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I read the newspaper every day,” he said.  He must have thought I was trying to pull a fast one on him, and he was obviously getting hot.  “You get the same big city paper I do.  Have you seen any articles about a war?”

I had to stop and think about it.  “Now that you mention it,” I said, “I don’t remember seeing anything lately.  I don’t even know what I mean by ‘lately,’ though.”

“War is news,” he said belligerently.  “Big news. Listen, I’ve lived through World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War, and I know what kind of press coverage they had.  There’s been nothing in the paper about a war.  Don’t you think a major newspaper would cover one of the biggest stories in the world if we were at war?”

“Sure, but...,” I began.

“In wartime, newspapers are filled with pictures of mothers whose homes have been destroyed or whose children have just been killed.  Soldiers carrying their wounded buddies.  Bleeding, bandaged soldiers being evacuated.  Human interest stuff that makes a war intimate and personal.  Have you seen any pictures like that?”

“Uh, no,” I said, “but....”

“We’re always hearing that the world is shrinking.  That this is ‘an age of instant communication.’  That ‘our lives now are intertwined with those of people on the other side of the globe.’  Have you been feeling communicated with by people we’re at war with on the other side of a shrunken planet?”

“No, I guess I haven’t, but....”

“If you’re at war, the war looms huge in a nation’s life.  People talk about it constantly.  It’s part of the fabric of everyday life while it lasts.  It’s part of your consciousness.  Do you hear people talking about a war?  Is a war part of your consciousness?”

That caught me off guard.  “Well, no, but....”

“We just had midterm elections,” he interrupted me.  “I did my civic duty.  I watched all five debates between the candidates for Congress from our district.   Nobody mentioned a war.  In five debates.  Not once.  Considering that the military eats up around half our federal budget, and wars cause huge casualties and hardships, don’t you think it would be hard for candidates to ignore a war?”

“Yes, but....”

“Don’t ‘yes, but’ me,” he said.  “Did you watch the debates?”

“I did, Uncle Whitt,” I said.

“Did you hear anybody mention a single word about a war?”

“Well, no,” I said, “but....”

“And the Republican candidate’s main claim was that he would cut taxes.  Just like all the other Republican candidates.  Wars aren’t cheap.  You don’t cut taxes in wartime.  You raise them to fund the damn war.  Even an idiot knows that. So it’s obvious we’re not at war.  Don’t you think his opponents would have jumped all over him if he tried to pull a stunt like cutting taxes when we’re fighting a war?”

“Uh, ....”

“If we were at war, wouldn’t the war be one of the major issues in the election?”

“You would think so, but....”

“And don’t you think there would be millions of protestors clogging the streets in DC and New York and LA if we were fighting a war they didn’t care for?”

“I suppose so,” I said, “but....”

“Do you see streets packed with demonstrators?” he challenged, as Roscoe began to fidget.

“No, no, but....”

“Do you see soldiers welcomed home with parades, given the keys to the city?  TV news covering soldiers’ returning from a combat zone, or soldiers’ bodies being flown home with their families receiving a flag and attending their burial?”

“Well, no, but....”

“Do you think our government is actually conducting an invisible war?” he demanded sarcastically.

“I know it sounds crazy, but....”

“Ace,” he said, “you were never the brightest candle on the cake.  But this takes the cake.  I don’t know how you came up with this tomfoolery, but somebody with delusions like yours needs to have his head checked out.”  And, giving Roscoe a jerk, he trotted off in a huff.  Roscoe--as usual--took a nip at my pants leg as he passed.

I stood there for a minute, feeling a little dizzy.  Then I turned around and walked back into the house.  “Patty,” I said, feeling idiotic, “this may sound odd, but I need to know.  Are we are at war now, or are we not?” 

© Tony Russell, 2010

Writer’s Note:  Just to be absolutely clear, this column in no way is intended to say or imply that there aren’t people in this country who care deeply about the war and try to stay informed about it, whether it is because they have a friend or family member in harm’s way, or because of the devastation and suffering the war is causing, or simply because they are sickened by what’s being done in our name.  The column’s intent is to show how successful our political leadership (and their corporate string-pullers) have been in muting media coverage of the war, eliminating it as a political issue, and erasing it from our public consciousness.