"I don't belong here," I thought, more than once, on the walk. I looked at the masses of people surrounding me. "I don't know what I believe."
Nevertheless, I kept walking, trying to figure out my own complicated feelings on the issue, on the war. Eschewing green beer and Saint Patrick to exercise the first amendment, freedom of speech and peaceable assembly, I marched alongside anti-war protestors from the Lincoln Memorial to the Pentagon on Saturday afternoon.
My
brother asked about the march a few days earlier, emailed the day before, called that morning. He and a couple friends were out getting coffee and then heading down to the rally. I met up with them at the Metro.
The train was empty at that point, at Eastern Market, but the farther we got, the more people joined, crowding the train, carrying signs, wearing buttons. By the time we reached Foggy Bottom, the train groaned under the weight of so many passengers, bulging at the sides and heaving them onto the platform. Hundreds of people rode the escalators skyward and walked down the street, as men and women passed out signs from the sidewalk and between cars.
"I feel like I'm going to a game," one of the boys said. "In Wisconsin, the only reason for a crowd like this is a sporting event. Go, Badgers!"
"We don't have great teams in the District; we do this instead. Protest."
From our vantage point and our late arrival, we could only see the crowd on 23rd Street, facing the Lincoln. I didn't know if the crowd wrapped the monument, pushed toward the Vietnam Memorial, around the Reflecting Pool, toward the Korean War Memorial. I could only see the people on my street.
Someone on a loudspeaker called for veterans and their families to lead the march. The group shifted and we started moving, taking baby steps toward the bridge. Shuffle, step, halt. Shuffle. Halt. Eventually, the crowd started moving and we pressed toward the bridge, along the Lincoln Memorial Circle.
To the left, across the street and behind the police, counter-protestors held signs and shouted at us.
"Traitors!"
Bikers in black leather, veterans, families holding signs and shouting angrily, criticizing the hand-lettered signs, criticizing the carriers and calling us anti-American. Their numbers dropped drastically as we approached the bridge, petering out completely for the span.
"Buttons for peace," offered a woman with a box of pins, doling out handfuls of white doves on a red background. "Take one and pass the rest."
I pinned one on my coat and one on my brother's as we walked into the wind, crossing the Potomac. We moved slowly in the biting cold. Step, shuffle, halt. We shifted, sometimes walking with together, sometimes with strangers. We talked. Some chanted. A group of women struck up "America the Beautiful," and "All we are saying is give peace a chance" drifted across the crowd at intervals.
A woman with a microphone and a man with a speaker chanted, "What do we want?"
"Peace!" shouted the crowd.
"When do we want it?"
"Now!"
At times, another chant rang out, "Tell me Democracy looks like," answered by "This is what democracy looks like!"
In the middle of the bridge, a cameraman focused on a reporter speaking Russian, the crowd streaming around him. Another interviewed in Spanish a few steps down. Photographers climbed onto the railings, the parapets. Police instructed people to move from the sidewalks to the street, but the group soon overtook them, walking on every available surface.
On the other side of the bridge, windblown and chapped, we welcomed sunshine and a break in the wind. The counter-protestors grouped again, with signs and angry words.
"Traitors!" they shouted once more. "Win the War or Lose to Jihad" and "Safe since 9/11."
Some of the protestors shouted back. As for me, I didn't see much point. There was no way to enter a dialogue, a discourse, come to see each others' points of view while shouting and marching, pointing fingers. I thought all this as I walked, as I marched. We all believed we were right. We all carried American flags.
I thought of my friends, serving in Afghanistan and Iraq in both civilian and military roles. I supported them the only way I knew how. I prayed. I sent gifts of food and books and toys. I wrote letters, daily at times, and when they got home, I talked when they wanted to talk. I was quiet when they wanted silence.
I supported them, but I wanted it to end. I didn't want them to go back. For those who were there, I wanted them to come home. For the boys in my neighborhood, Marines barely old enough to drink, I didn't want them to go. I simply didn't understand how we could or would succeed in this war. I didn't know what success meant, and I believed that continued occupation of Iraq was not a solution.
I thought all this as I marched toward the Pentagon. I looked back and saw a column of people stretching from where I stood on the GW Parkway to the Lincoln Memorial. Our friends peeled off at some point, heading toward the metro after we crossed the bridge. My brother and I continued, finding ourselves near the front, near the veterans, near the drummers. Everyone pushed to reach the stage.
As we crossed the parking lot, as we ended the march, Edwin Starr blared from the speakers, "War! Huh. Yeah. What is it good for?"
People shouted in response, "Absolutely nothing!" dancing and jumping. The mood was celebratory. People filmed the crowd with their video cameras, digitals, cell phones. I know I ended up on at least one video singing.
I stomped and danced to keep warm. My knee ached and my fingers froze. I regretted forgetting my scarf at home. I wanted a beer and I wanted a nap but I felt good. Proud. American.
As we approached the fourth anniversary of the war in Iraq, I joined hundreds of thousands of protestors
nationwide: kids with Mohawks, veterans from various wars, protestors of the same, students, teachers, unwashed masses and soccer moms. From all walks of life and all positions on the political spectrum, we met for a common cause, to protest a war in which we don't believe.
Tag:
Protest War Iraq Washington DC Iraq
