Life is uncertain. Change is the only constant; so it is now. As I write these words, we are still within the 48-hour window that precedes the onset of hostilities in Iraq.
I went downtown Sunday night to the front lawn of the Unitarian Church. Some 400 of my fellow Burlingtonians gathered with candles to keep a vigil for peace. I recognized many faces from around town, from previous anti-war gatherings. Unlike the rallies, the crowd was subdued and solemn Sunday, standing for long minutes in silence. A full moon showed in the sky; lights from the street threw shadows from the bare branches of a sugar maple onto the church’s facade. Above the door, the number 1816 – the year of the church’s founding – was carved in granite. Less than two years before the church was built, Americans had repulsed the British army and navy just across the lake at Plattsburgh, New York.
Sunday evening’s vigil was one of 6,500, starting in New Zealand and following the sunset around the globe. I spent a good portion of the vigil looking into people’s faces, wondering what brought them out into the night. A blond three-year-old sat on his father’s shoulders and held an American flag; he had obviously been brought out by his parents. An old man leaned on a cane, the lenses of his glasses reflecting the light of dozens of candles.
The vigil ended and I came home to watch the news. In the last few days, I’ve been making a special effort to look into the faces of the people on the news. It’s easy, when you have a soapbox to stand on, to get caught up in the details of diplomatic this and military that. Sometimes I have to remind myself that this is about people, not politics. The faces of the people in Baghdad look frightened as they buy up whatever food and supplies are available. The faces of American and British soldiers look frightened too, as much as they try to disguise their fear with a layer of cool bravado. I look into their faces and think they’re too young to be soldiers, they haven’t yet seen enough of life; they don’t seem mature enough for killing and dying. The saddest faces on the news belong to the Kurds. When the bombs start to fall, they expect any number of armed factions will rush into their territory from every direction, each with a different agenda, none of them benign.
The pain and fear I see on those faces reminds me of the American faces I saw on September 11, 2001. Everything did change for us that day; the kind of suffering that regularly visits people around the world came to America. By saying that, I don’t mean to imply we deserved what happened on Sept. 11th, because we didn’t.
As a result of the pain we suffered in those attacks, I think many Americans now understand how powerful we as a people are and how easily our power can inflict pain on other people – our military power, our economic power, our cultural power. Many Americans are now distressed to see our leaders – citing Sept. 11th as a reason – using that great power more recklessly than ever before.
American power – and its ability to inflict pain – are at the heart of my opposition to this war. A nation as powerful as ours, as gifted and resourceful as ours, has got to be able to find better uses for its power than simply bending the world to our will through the infliction of pain.
I’ve been thinking about World War I lately, another foolish war launched by nations intoxicated with power and looking for more. On August 4, 1914, the day the war started, my grandfather landed in America. In many ways, he was running away from that foolish war. As his feet hit the dock in America, in England Foreign Secretary Edward Grey said, “The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.”
Eighty-nine years later, the lamps are going out again – perhaps all over the world. Like some others, Adrienne and I are keeping a candle burning in the window, in hopes that light may yet prevail.
All Over the World
Life is uncertain. Change is the only constant; so it is now. As I write these words, we are still within the 48-hour window that precedes the onset of hostilities in Iraq.
I went downtown Sunday night to the front lawn of the Unitarian Church. Some 400 of my fellow Burlingtonians gathered with candles to keep a vigil for peace. I recognized many faces from around town, from previous anti-war gatherings. Unlike the rallies, the crowd was subdued and solemn Sunday, standing for long minutes in silence. A full moon showed in the sky; lights from the street threw shadows from the bare branches of a sugar maple onto the church’s facade. Above the door, the number 1816 – the year of the church’s founding – was carved in granite. Less than two years before the church was built, Americans had repulsed the British army and navy just across the lake at Plattsburgh, New York.
Sunday evening’s vigil was one of 6,500, starting in New Zealand and following the sunset around the globe. I spent a good portion of the vigil looking into people’s faces, wondering what brought them out into the night. A blond three-year-old sat on his father’s shoulders and held an American flag; he had obviously been brought out by his parents. An old man leaned on a cane, the lenses of his glasses reflecting the light of dozens of candles.
The vigil ended and I came home to watch the news. In the last few days, I’ve been making a special effort to look into the faces of the people on the news. It’s easy, when you have a soapbox to stand on, to get caught up in the details of diplomatic this and military that. Sometimes I have to remind myself that this is about people, not politics. The faces of the people in Baghdad look frightened as they buy up whatever food and supplies are available. The faces of American and British soldiers look frightened too, as much as they try to disguise their fear with a layer of cool bravado. I look into their faces and think they’re too young to be soldiers, they haven’t yet seen enough of life; they don’t seem mature enough for killing and dying. The saddest faces on the news belong to the Kurds. When the bombs start to fall, they expect any number of armed factions will rush into their territory from every direction, each with a different agenda, none of them benign.
The pain and fear I see on those faces reminds me of the American faces I saw on September 11, 2001. Everything did change for us that day; the kind of suffering that regularly visits people around the world came to America. By saying that, I don’t mean to imply we deserved what happened on Sept. 11th, because we didn’t.
As a result of the pain we suffered in those attacks, I think many Americans now understand how powerful we as a people are and how easily our power can inflict pain on other people – our military power, our economic power, our cultural power. Many Americans are now distressed to see our leaders – citing Sept. 11th as a reason – using that great power more recklessly than ever before.
American power – and its ability to inflict pain – are at the heart of my opposition to this war. A nation as powerful as ours, as gifted and resourceful as ours, has got to be able to find better uses for its power than simply bending the world to our will through the infliction of pain.
I’ve been thinking about World War I lately, another foolish war launched by nations intoxicated with power and looking for more. On August 4, 1914, the day the war started, my grandfather landed in America. In many ways, he was running away from that foolish war. As his feet hit the dock in America, in England Foreign Secretary Edward Grey said, “The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.”
Eighty-nine years later, the lamps are going out again – perhaps all over the world. Like some others, Adrienne and I are keeping a candle burning in the window, in hopes that light may yet prevail.