Sunday, 31 October 2004 - 1:16 PM CDT
Name:
ginny
Home Page:
http://www.blogula-rasa.com
Sorry, everyone, this one's long, but it needs to be read:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/ginmar/322336.html
The Summer Soldier
I got my ballot the other day, and it was relief to find that it didn't have any blood stains on it. You expect there to be some sign of the effort it took---the lives it cost----to accomplish something. With all the hits we've been taking lately, that was all the cautious good news one could find. No sign of what happened.
I left the post office, and looked up at the palace on the hill: Saddam's palace, now a place where soldiers from several countries are bumbling around, trying to bring democracy to this place. Some of them have only recently acquired it themselves in their own countries. One of the most touching things I've ever seen was the Prime Minister of Bulgaria, tearing up on TV as his country was inducted into NATO.
Democracy is one of those things that people look for when they see that palace on the hill. They want it to be big and shiny, with trumpets and armies and flags. Instead, I think of that man, trying not to weep in front of the world. I have no idea what his thoughts could be. I've never really thought about what it means to be a citizen of a democracy, because it's always been there for me.
It shouldn't be a big thing, this concept of freedom, and the idealist in me thinks that every war is a failure of humanity. That palace on the hill has gorgeous marble but it's very crudely carved. From that vantage point one could almost see Saddam's eyes, looking for enemies. Yet the people of Iraq still smile at us, offer us tea, smiles, handshakes, able even in this war of trying to find some common ground. These are people who hope for freedom, for self-determination. For safety.
Some people say, "My country, love it or leave it," and insist that that's patriotism.
It's not. These are the summer soldiers of our history, loving only what is easy to love, accepting only what is acceptible, and hating anything that's complex. They love the big and the brash, and miss out on the small details. They see only the surface of the water, never the depths beneath, and in its surface they see only their own reflection.
They'll say they love their country, but they only love the good parts. Their love is like a bitter phrase of my father's: "Cold indeed is the love blown out by one gust of wind." But instead of becoming disenchanted with their country, they become disenchanted with those who see her clearly, and love her not in spite of it but they love her anyway. Love her as a whole, and you cherish her all the more, for her potential and her efforts---and her vulnerability. Love her as she is, for what she might become, and you might be able to see potential elsewhere, too.
Democracy, like any virtue, can be promoted through small acts and gestures. Its central premise is that every person's voice should be heard, and that concept never really hit me till I stood in front of that post office with the dust of a hundred histories on my boots, and wrote my candidate's name on my ballot. My handwriting was messy and blotchy and I think the heat does something to the ink. It was perfectly ordinary---one pays bills in this humble fashion every day. And yet there was that building high above me, the historic river flowing by, the ruins nearby. It was an ordinary act in extraordinary circumstances.
People ask how we can do the job we do here, undertake the risks we do. It's simple: it's moments like that, the visceral jolt that comes from realizing what exactly one is doing. How often do you get to say that you voted in Iraq? Certainly it's a novelty for the Iraqis. But it's more than that. We know that we're preserving that right for other people, too. As long as some people are free, they can offer hope to those who are not.
Democracy is one of those things that you think you can define---until the very moment you try. Freedom? Yeah, what's that? I'm wearing the same outfit as 140,000 other people here. But I took an oath to defend the Constitution, and to me that means its principles. Once you recognize that you're free, you also have to recognize that other people are not, and that until they are, you can't really be, either. Freedom carries with it that burden, that acknowledgement. It's not enough to be a beacon, a symbol, a hope. You have to be active. That's the cruelest irony of all about it. I suspect the sunshine patriots Thomas Paine spoke about got a distinct jolt when they realized that freedom doesn't mean disconnection from other people---in fact, it means the exact opposite. No one can be till everyone is free.
There's something about being a Reservist that makes this seem especially vivid. We throw our fates to chance, and some of us like the idea that we're beholding to this amorphous concept of freedom. We put aside our individuality, our homes, our jobs, and we take up someone else's lives and hopes. We feel part of a larger purpose, a larger cause than our own paltry concerns. And we like it.
People ask how we do the job we do, and there's another answer, too: because of you. We fight, and you hope. The act of taking up that banner links everyone together, even if you never take up a weapon. Freedom doesn't mean isolation; it means connection, and admittance to a club with a wide-open membership. We have a common desire, it's just the execution that's different.
People ask how they can support us.
It's very simple.
Vote.
I don't care who you vote for, I just care that you do. Our deaths, our injuries, our sacrifices, are all payment for that concept of giving people a voice. We've given you a gift. We've paid for it already. We are here, and we will be here till the job is done. Yet there are people who say that the process is stupid, flawed, unnecessary. They may be right. But we're here for a reaon, and every one hwo doesn't vote negates that reason just a bit.
People ask how they can support us.
Vote.
My ballot was not blood-stained, but that's because a truckload of them probably got blown up. I was using a generic ballot, not even the one I was sent. In order for us to vote, someone gave up their life. The Iraqis haven't seen a real election in thirty years. It's a brand new right for them, and some of them are willing to die for it.
Vote.
Take up the banner for all the people, living and dead, who fought for this. Take up your part in the fight. Remember them. Remember us.
(end)
