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Comments on the Crisis
Hilltop invites comment and reflection on all aspects of the present crisis, and will note the latest postings on our war coverage page.
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The following letter was written following the peace rally that took place in Washington DC on January 18. Several members of the Mars Hill College community attended, including this writer.
Amy Hanes and Kathy Meacham at the Peace Rally in Washington D.C.
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Our Brothers
Amy E. Hanes - Senior
Should I go? What if I don't get all of my reading done this weekend? Isn't it supposed to be 15 below in D.C.? What am I going to tell my mother if we all get arrested? What would I really miss out on if I just stayed home? These questions began firing through my head at rapid speed after I got the message that there was a cancellation, (i.e. an open seat for me) on the bus trip to Washington D.C for the peace demonstration. After giving myself a "get tough speech" for the cold weather, and a pretty strong mental pinch for letting fear and laziness stand in my way, I moved onto far more difficult questions.
What would my attendance at this march be saying about me? What do I really stand for? What do I believe in? When human rights are threatened, is war justifiable? So much has changed for me personally over the past four years here at Mars Hill politically, spiritually, and ethically. How can I, in good conscience, attend this demonstration without a clear-cut solution to offer in exchange for a plan to go to war? Does the concreteness of a plan to go to war make it a more reasonable approach than a peaceful response, which still remains unclear in the minds of many? What about my peers who have been shipped off already…am I being unsupportive of their sacrifice? Am I being disrespectful to those who lost their lives in the September 11th tragedy?
Ok, these are more legitimate concerns than the cold weather. As I sat on my bed, seeking direction, my eyes drifted around the room. My attention was drawn to what I know have to be two of the most beautiful pictures in existence. Pictures I've seen a thousand times that continue to take my breath away, that call me to notice something more in them, new details each time I look.
They're simple really, snapshots taken with disposable cameras and developed at Wal-Mart. I am in a couple of them, but when I look I hardly ever see myself. My focus rests on an eight-year-old boy with light brown hair and the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen. He is wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt, and he is giving the camera an "I know I'm cute, and a little mischievous" kinda grin in the first one.
My favorite picture though, is the one below that. He is wearing a white t-shirt that really sets off his summer tan, and his hair is sticking up a little in the front. He did that on purpose, to proudly show his battle wound (4 little stitches from a boating accident earlier in the week). Not quite smiling.....he's just looking at you. There is something very arresting in that look though. It's an honesty that I often see on children, but rarely in adults. An honesty that often fills his heart and eyes with wonder at the things around him, laughter, and a curious love for all he knows, including me, his big sister.
My mom will tell you that since I was in the delivery room, and I saw him take his first breath, we are closer than most. Maybe that's true. All I am sure of is that I have a love for him that parallels no other. But this time, while I looked at Brett's picture and asked myself the tough questions, a different image came to mind. Right now there is a 22 year old Iraqi woman, much like myself, looking at a picture of her baby brother, whom she loves more than her own life.
She is just as interested in my attendance at the peace demonstration and this pending war situation as I am, but for different and far more immediate reasons. While I can sit and imagine what it would be like to lose Brett if he were of age to be called, that young Iraqi sister's fears are present reality. She has to prepare herself each morning to be ready for that day when fire and smoke and thunder will touch down in her neighborhood. That day when she will have to try to escape the flames of her own home, to run down the street, choking on black smoke., to the school that her little brother attends.
She is preparing herself for that run, for those five agonizing minutes when she will wonder if his school is still standing. She is wondering how she is going to see through the tears and the smoke. She is thinking about that moment, when she'll turn the corner, holding her breath, to see that his school no longer stands. She is preparing herself for that search, for those hours when she, and other sisters, brothers, moms and dads, will be screaming their children's names. She worries that he won't be able to hear his name in all the chaos. She's practiced the pray she'll offer, in hopes that his little hand will come up out of the ashes, only to know, in the back of her head, that she will never see her baby brother again.
She is calling me to go, pleading with me to go. She reminds us that both of their lives are in danger, even if the US does not declare war on Iraq. Under present circumstances, her people need action. That is why she is calling me to attend this peace demonstration in an active way. She is begging me to speak up, to ask questions, and to demand that others, in positions similar to mine (positions of power as free American citizens), to work diligently to come up with a resolution that will create lasting change, true change. She needs a resolution that will save both of our little brothers. She is crying for my attendance, because if I go, we are one step closer to formulating a resolution that will let her little brother live.
She is also asking for my attendance, so I can make a difference in the life of my little brother, and she is wise enough to know the value in affecting the lives of the world's children. I will be able to show him, by example what love through peace is all about. When he asks the tough questions, like "Is this the only way to solve this problem?" "Do other little boys like me have to die?" I can say no. I will be honest with him, and tell him that I do not have all of the answers, and yes, war would probably be the quickest way to resolve the immediate crisis.
I can explain to him that we can try to "think outside the box." I'll explain that for me, attendance at the peace demonstration is symbolic of an ethic that celebrates my faith in the ability of those who truly care, to make a difference. Attendance will give him a vision of the first steps necessary in "making a difference." Maybe he'll come to the conclusion that when strong hearts and minds unite in their love for others, there is no possible way that war, and death and destruction are the only means to resolution.
I will make sure that he understands that advocating for peace is not a passive position. I can work to teach Brett about the dangers that she and her little brother face simply because they are Iraqi citizens. And I can remind him of the responsibility we have to seek resolution that aids people in need all over the world, without war. If I go, my example will show him that I am affirming the lives of my peers who have been called to serve in this war. I would be protesting the effort that has called them there, a war that may demand their lives.
What better way would I have to show him that magnitude of the tragedy of September 11th, than to take a stand against all death and destruction of any form, of any human being? Standing in protest of further death and sorrow, in a show of my commitment to developing a more ethical solution may nurture his love for others. So, for that Iraqi sister, and both of our baby brothers, I took Brett's picture off of the wall, placed it in my Bible, and called to secure my seat on the bus.
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