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I Dissent
A
BUZZFLASH READER COMMENTARY
by
Sharon B.
I hear the shouting from blocks away as I make my way to Chicago's Daley Center Plaza, weaving in and out of seemingly oblivious crowds. They laugh as they dart in and out of the corporate conglomeration of name-brand stores that line State Street. Do they not realize that war is just days away? Do they not know what is about to take place in their names? It is a reality that I am not willing to accept, and once again I am out in the street to voice my opposition. As I round the corner, I am greeted by more than 5,000 people. They are carrying signs. They chant. They raise their fists in defiance. They will not be silenced.
Today, I am here to listen to these patriots' voices, so many stories, so much truth to be told. This is the true face of the United States, democracy in action. A 33-year-old teacher named Colleen from suburbia tells me she is weary of being denounced as anti-American. "No, I am American! I love America enough to raise my voice to show the world that we want peace." In a climate of fear and terror alerts, another teacher, 34-year-old Alejandro, says he is concerned about the creeping abridgement of his civil rights. "It's important to practice our democratic right to speak out before it becomes against national security."
Catherine, 53, cautiously stands on the outskirts of the main body of protesters. "I believe in the U.N. as a body where international disputes can be resolved without bloodshed," she says. Her daughter, 20-year-old Carolyn, echoes her thoughts. "Bush claims he wants to go to war because Saddam is thumbing his nose at the U.N. But if Bush goes to war without U.N. support, he is doing the same thing. Bush loses all legitimacy as a result."
Eileen, a 56-year-old registered nurse, says she is opposed to war as a mother and a grandmother. "I feel that unless middle America speaks out, we will continue like a steam engine, going downhill without brakes, toward war and destruction." She is accompanied by her husband, a 59-year-old lawyer who is a board member of the Friends Committee on National Legislation. "It is offensive on religious, moral and rational grounds and represents arrogance of those wielding power," he says.
"I am very scared for myself and others," confesses 64-year-old Marianne, who worries as much about Saddam as she does about what is happening inside of her country's own borders. "Death and destruction are never a good idea. I worry about the families that will be destroyed, here and abroad." It is that fear and concern that has driven her into the streets. "There has to be a better way to solve problems," the retiree says.
Debbie, a 58-year-old nurse practitioner, points out the importance of resolving issues in the U.S. before trying to conquer distant lands. "We have homeless, starving people in our country. ... Welfare is being cut, no funds, yet we are spending billions on war," she says. She notes that more and more people are streaming into community health clinic where she works, embarrassed because they have lost their jobs and no longer have insurance. She is joined by her 70-year-old friend, Catherine, who is carrying a U.S. flag. But today she is flying it upside down as a symbol of distress. "I feel this war is unjust, illegal, immoral. The money that is being spent on death and destruction could be better used to give life to those in need -- health care, affordable housing, jobs, education," she says.
I talk to 52-year-old Mike about the importance of supporting the U.S. troops. A veteran of four conflicts, including Desert Storm, he shares that he is 100 percent disabled as the result of an untested vaccine. Opposed to going into Iraq for a second time, he says the best way we can support our troops is to not send them into harm's way in the first place.
Amal, whose head is covered by an intricately embroidered black scarf, says she is opposed to the war because "It's not just. ... It's all lies, cover-ups and greed." For her, speaking out at a time when the Muslims among us are a target of mistrust, fear and sometimes hatred is an act of courage. "This is what America is all about. Freedom of speech has to live on," the preschool teacher says.
Her confidence is not shared by a group of men of Middle Eastern descent. Approached for comment, one man consents. He is joined by others, who quickly pull him away. Emerging from an impromptu huddle, he explains it would not be safe for him to make any comment for fear that it could be misconstrued. "I am an American citizen, but we are being targeted," he says apologetically. He tells me of an acquaintance who was trying to re-enter the U.S. after being overseas. He was detained for six months, unable to speak to a lawyer or his family. No charges were ever filed. I find myself apologizing on behalf of my country, whose principles are becoming increasingly foreign to me. He thanks me for trying to shed light on such issues.
So many voices. So many stories. Still, we are here standing together. The distinctions that may have once separated us have been blurred. There is no race, creed or color. We speak as one voice. We say no to war, no to death and destruction. We embrace the vision that a better world is possible, and we are willing to step outside of ourselves to help shape that reality. I rejoin the larger crowd. Protesters have transformed the Picasso into an artistic statement of dissent, scrawling messages in white chalk. "No war. No Bush." "End subsidies for war."
It is time to march. The crowd carries me forward as it snakes down Michigan Avenue. I am standing shoulder to shoulder with representatives of labor unions, religious groups and educational communities. Medical professionals, service workers and retirees join the cacophony. Two college-age girls are carrying a mock casket draped in the U.S. flag, only the stars have been replaced with corporate logos. I spot a young couple with an infant riding on her father's back in a carrier. Her cherub-like cheeks are painted with fuchsia peace symbols. There is so much power to be found here as our chants bounce off the skyscrapers and reverberate through the passersby who are stopped in their tracks by the ensuing spectacle. Some appear unnerved by this display of democracy in action. Others welcome it. Drivers honk their horns in a show of solidarity. Spectators flash peace symbols. United we stand.
As we return to our starting point, I am filled with hope, and the energy of the crowd has been synthesized into a new collective consciousness. Power to the people, indeed. Can we really stop a war? Probably not. But when history is written and someone asks, "Where were you when all of this took place?" I will be able to look them squarely in the eyes and say that I was out in the streets fighting every step of the way. I proudly will be held into account for my actions.
The beauty of the early evening enveloping the city propels me into the Cancer Survivors Pavilion, which is wedged in the corner of Illinois and Lake Shore Drive. The setting is rich with irony, and I wonder if we will survive the cancer that is festering within our own borders. To the left of me is the greenish-blue expanse of Lake Michigan. To the right is Chicago's unmistakable skyline. A full moon shrouded in fog is rising over the lake, and the lights in the skyscrapers flick on and off as people settle in for the evening. Urns are perched atop tall pedestals filled with yellowed greenery and barren branches reach skyward from the center. Birds are singing and there is a promise of spring in the gentle breeze.
I take a deep breath. For one brief moment, I am at peace. The beauty around me, both natural and manmade, inspires a quiet awe, and I think of all of the amazing people who I have met today. Such reasoned voices. Such remarkable compassion. Such good hearts. It gives me hope, hope for a just future, hope for humanity. My mind races in another direction. I think about what is happening thousands of miles away in Baghdad. Have the dishes been done? Are families strolling through the park? Are children laughing? As my eyes search the skyline once more, I imagine fighter jets strafing the city, one bomb after another leveling monuments of steel and concrete. Sirens are blaring. People are shouting frantically. Children are crying.
It is all too much. I bury my face in my hands and begin sobbing, shedding tears for all that has happened and all that will come to pass. The quiet desperation of the moment gives way to righteous anger. How dare they ignore the precepts of democracy and the Constitution to conquer a distant land? How dare they mortgage our future to feed the war machine? How dare they destroy and kill in the name of oil and empire? How dare they?
I am but a lone voice, but I am joined by a chorus of millions throughout the world. I dissent, and, together, we demand to be heard.
A BUZZFLASH READER COMMENTARY
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