Please Give Us Back Peace
Because all I hear is crying, can you hear it too?
Emotions are on high alert like the nuclear arsenal that Putin has put at the ready. War is living amongst us like an unwanted visitor.
The whole world is tense and living in a state of wide-opened mouthed disbelief that something like this could happen again in Europe.
As if war was a distant concept that lives somewhere else, in the deserts, and jungles, not amongst pine and oak trees, or on the streets with ornate filigree-crested facades of pink and yellow baroque buildings. War happens on dirt roads, not BMW-lined boulevards with outdoor cafes and shopping centers.
I saw a photo today in the newspaper of a smoldering tank, or maybe it was just an armored vehicle. In the photo’s foreground was the body of a soldier who looked like he was holding a rifle. The caption mentioned the city in Ukraine, Kharkiv, but nothing about the dead man or woman. The body was a feature that underlined the horror of the scene, yet there was no mention of what we were actually seeing.
I immediately felt horrible for his family. Someday he will be identified, and this picture will be something they will see. I can only imagine how they will cry over it, then fold it up, and place it in a drawer with other things of his — his high school graduation photo, his enlistment papers, his medals, and of course, his death certificate.
As I write these lines, my eyes well up with tears. I am triggered like so many millions of people around the world.
When we see these images, we remember — like the Vietnam vet who tries so hard to hold back his overwhelm as the shudder of combat memories shoots through his body; the Marine Corps Humvee driver who lost his legs in Afghanistan in an IED explosion who turns his head away from his thoughts; the “lost boys” of South Sudan who’s scares are so deep they have no words for them, and the Iraqi taxi driver that drove me from Chicago’s O’hare airport to the city center the other day.
It was snowing, and the wind was blowing so hard the flakes were being pushed back up into the black night sky, like ashes floating above a fire. The quiet young driver had the radio on NPR low.
I asked, “Are you following what is happening in Ukraine?”
The lights of the Chicago skyline glowed orange. My windows were fogged up. My mask felt tight and uncomfortable as I spoke those words. What was I thinking? And why did I have a sense that he may have something to tell me?
“Yes. I cried last night.” the young man said.
“Where are you from?”
“Iraq. Kut, just south of Baghdad. I know war, so I cry. I know what crazy men like Saddam and Putin can do to people’s lives. I spent 2 1/2 years in a refugee camp in Saudi. War is bad. 8 years of depression. Very Bad?”
The flashing red brake lights ahead of us stopped the flow of traffic. The snow was falling hard now.
I felt caught in the conversation, like war was holding me close, straggling me. I wanted out of the cab. I wanted it all to be over. I so bad the warm comfort of Peace on this cold winter night in Chicago.
I don’t know war, but I know it very well. I grew up listening to the horrors of living through the bombing of Berlin at the end of WWII from my mother and grandmother.
I heard the stories of forced marches and saw the lash marks of torture on friends in college who survived Ethiopian-Eritrean as they were forced to hundreds of miles south to Sudan to escape.
An old boyfriend lost his mother in Algeria’s war for independence from France in 1961. She was falsely accused of collaborating; they imprisoned her, and she died in her cell, giving birth to his younger brother.
And as a journalist, I spent years and years covering the war machine and its destruction of people in the United States as we fought our wars against Terror in post 9/11 America. So I carry war with me so that I can talk about how bad it is and how we should avoid it at all costs.
Yesterday, an article in the LA Times wrote about how parents should talk about war with their young children.
- Should they openly talk about war? No. Have the children approach the subject with the questions. Hold their hands and answer them.
- Should we hide the newspaper from them? Perhaps cover the photo that shows dead people? Yes.
I spend a lot of time deep inside each and every photo. Because I will not shrink from the truth that this evil called war is living in our midst again.
I will be present, even it is painful. I will hold space for those who need to speak about it. I will hold their hand if they need it.
I will listen to taxi drivers to hear the trembling voices triggered by the events of our times.
I will cry with the world.
And, I will stand with humanity and say, please, please stop dropping the bombs.
Please give us back our Peace so that we can go back to what is most important — family, friends, a decent job, a good meal, and perhaps even a good laugh. Because right now, all I hear is crying.
