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May 27, 2013

Throwing Rocks at Children

I heard
a young man say,

“I threw rocks at kids so I wouldn’t have to shoot them.”



I heard

a young woman say,

“On my team we called kids TITS ‘Terrorists in Training’.”



Straightening his back

name on his jacket now readable

the young man said,

“I’m a big guy. I was called into prisoner interrogations. I was a given a bat. I didn’t have to hit them, just make noise, yell, bang things around.”



Pulling her camos around her

Delicate hands resting on a journal

The young woman said,

“You might think its just robots, but you have to remember there are people behind them making them move, pushing the buttons.”



Said the young man,

“I remember the beaten prisoner returned to us by Iraqi police. His testicles black, he asked for medical attention. We sent only women medics. I do no know what happened to him.”



Said the young woman,

“I was called ‘The Harbinger of Death.’ What’s the difference between a gun and shovel when you are four miles up in the air?”



I saw

sadness on the man’s face as he recalled,

“I was called a pussy and a faggot when I didn’t want to shoot at a man in a car with his children.”

  
I saw

pain on the woman’s face as she remembered,

“I knew people who asked for help and they are no longer with us. The only way they could get help was to take their own lives." 



He

the brave one

speaking his truth to power

seeing the humanness of the other



She

the strong one

breaking her silence

bringing her darkness into the light



Courageous ones

he and she

baring their hidden war wounds
for me
for us to see

bearing their - 

NO


bearing MY
NO
bearing OUR

war burden



Like the lines from a catchy pop song that hook my brain cells

I cannot banish their words

Like the cicada outside my window that disturbs my sleep

I cannot banish their words

Pop songs fade away

Cicadas mate and die

But their words

His words

Her words

form a knife

Cutting easily through my gray matter

to lodge in my heart

And it hurts



On this Memorial Day I remember and give thanks for my Uncle Paul, veteran of The Battle of the Bulge. He never spoke about it. He bore his/our burden in silence.

I remember and give thanks for my neighbor Larry Houck, II and all the other names I touched on that Wall in Washington.  

I remember and give thanks for my father and all family and friends, living and dead, who bore/bear our war burden.

I also remember and give thanks for Henry David Thoreau, David Dellinger, Grace Paley, Bayard Rustin, David McReynolds, A.J. Muste, Steve Cary, Asa Watkins, Austin Reiger, the Berrigan Brothers, Elizabeth McAllister, Andy Mager, Naed Smith, Ann Marie Judson, Bradley Manning and all war resisters living and dead everywhere, who (like it or not) bore/bear our war burden in other ways.*

I give thanks for Kyle Quigley and Heather Linebaugh who so recently reminded me that not all war wounds can be seen with the naked eye, some must be seen with the heart. 

*During World War II 6,000 men rejected the draft and went to jail and another 12,000 chose some form of alternative service from working in mental institutions to volunteering for experiments. One of out every six men in US Federal Prisons during World War II was a draft resister. An excellent short resource on these resisters with links to documentary footage is found here. In addition, I also recommend the PBS documentary The Good War and those who Refused to Fight it.

UPDATE 5/28/2013:
Some written materials you might want to consider. By no means an exhaustive list, just some things I've read.

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