Consciousness is causal Meditations on protest
01/18/2010

A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death. -- Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

For the last six weeks, I’ve been conducting my own silent protest of the war in Afghanistan.  On Fridays from noon to 1:00 p.m., I stand on a busy street corner in downtown Santa Barbara with two signs.  One reads, “The war in Afghanistan is wrong: morally, financially, and strategically.”  The other says, “We’re creating the enemy we’re trying to quell.”

I stand in silence as much for my own protection as anything else.  I don’t want to get drawn into a debate because I don’t trust myself to remain peaceful.  I’m trying to “be the change I wish to see in the world.”  I’m trying to see the God in every person I meet.  That’s much easier to do when one has not reverted to being an ego debating another ego, or gotten one’s feelings hurt when another expression of God sees the world so differently than I do.

I have a couple of flyers I hand out if people seem sincerely interested in—or at least open to—more information.  One is a copy of former Marine Captain Matthew Hoh’s resignation letter from his Foreign Service post in Afghanistan.  The other is a brief listing of additional resources: a couple of websites with Hoh’s letter (www.vvaw.org/commentary/Hoh_ResignationLetter.pdf, and www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/10/26/AR2009102603394.html); an interview with Malalai Joya, the youngest and only female member of the Afghani parliament  (www.fpif.org/articles/interview_with_malalai_joya, and www.codepink.com), and Greg Mortenson’s books that advocate a developmental approach to defeating our foes in Afghanistan (Three Cups of Tea and Stones into Schools: Promoting Peace with Books, not Bombs). 

While I stand, I try to meditate, counting my breath, being appreciative of my surroundings, ready to smile and nod at passersby who acknowledge my presence.  Most who say anything thank me.  Many are excited by the simple fact of my presence: a single woman standing silently on a street corner in protest.  Many honk, or give me thumbs-up, or say, “I agree 100 percent,” or “You’re right.”  One man asked if he could pray with me.  When I nodded, he prayed aloud that God bless all who have the compassion and the courage to stand up for others.  A 20-something-year-old woman told me her baby brother was being shipped to Afghanistan in June and began to cry.  “He’s only 18.  He thinks he knows everything.”  We hugged and I gave her a flyer.  Today a Peruvian Indian gave me a pair of beaded earrings he made representing the four directions.

The homeless and the crazies are the ones most likely to try to strike up a conversation.  I’m often impressed with how well-informed they are—and reminded how close to homelessness most of us really are.  “It’s all about the pipeline,” a man carrying a bedroll told me today.  “That’s what we do.  We make someone our enemy and take what we want.”

Others point out the opium connection.  “Did you know that Afghanistan exports more opium than anywhere else in the world?” a homeless woman asked me today.  I nodded.  But she went on:  “That’s why the war in Afghanistan is a good war.  We’ve got to keep that shit out of here.”  Since I was maintaining silence, I couldn’t tell her that opium production has increased since our arrival in the country.  Nor could I suggest that $30 billion spent on development would give Afghanis alternatives to opium production and, as a result, be more productive than $30 billion spent on warfare.

Each day’s protest informs me of other resources, suggested by people who pass me by.  “Read Ban the Fed by Ron Paul,” one man offers.  “Have you read An Unexpected Light by Jason Elliott?” another man asks.  “He spent 15 years in Afghanistan, and it’s the only book he’s ever written.”  “Visit VenusProject.org.  I love you!” a young hippie volunteers.

My favorite responses are the positive ones I receive from vets.  “I’m a Vietnam vet,” a passing driver shouts.  “Right on!”  At least one of the drivers of the electric shuttle bus that ferries tourists and shoppers up and down State Street is a vet.  He always honks and gives me the peace sign as he passes.  Sometimes his passengers cheer me, too.  Today a homeless man told me his job in Vietnam was repairing bayonets.  “I knew then I should have gone to Canada,” he said. 

Other folks are more cynical.  “Good luck stopping that!” a middle-aged professional woman scoffed today.  “They’re making money!”

“Don’t you know one in three Americans is functionally illiterate?” another man said.  “That’s by design.  They want us to be consumers.  They don’t want us to know or question.  Meanwhile, the disparity between the haves and the have-nots gets greater by the day.”

Despite all the positive or amusing interactions (an elderly gentleman with a walker said to his companion, “There’s Barbara Streisand in The Way We Were.”  Since I wasn’t singing, he must have been referring to my nose), it’s interesting the power I give to the relative few that are negative.

“Instead of protesting, why don’t you support the troops?” a young man pulls over to ask me angrily.  I am saddened and bow, but inside I feel powerless, frustrated.  In my mind, I am supporting the troops.  It’s up to us to get them out of there.

Another man, disgusted, tells his companion, “That’s why we lost Vietnam.” 

Really?  Because of me?  I should be flattered.  But an inner voice cries, “It wasn’t ours to win or lose!  How did we become so arrogant?”

A middle-aged man with a German or Dutch accent stops and looks in my eyes.  “You are so wrong,” he says.  “Have you read the Koran?” 

“Have you read the Bible?” I think, but say nothing.  “She hasn’t,” he says with disgust and, taking his companion’s hand, walks away.

“Wow,” I puzzle.  “If the Koran says something hostile to infidels, does it mean we should kill all Muslims?”

Some people do think that.  Despite the voices for peace that exist within Islam; despite the violence that can be quoted from the Old—and even the New—Testament.  Despite the undeniable fact that, no matter what the Koran says, we in the West have inflicted far more violence and death on the Muslim world than they have ever inflicted upon us. 

So, ultimately, the people who disagree should bring me the most satisfaction that I am spending one hour a week in protest.  After all, if everyone agreed with me, what would be the point?  (Other than mobilizing a change in U.S. policy, I mean!)  But it’s work for me, the edge of my spiritual practice, to stand out there and try to keep my heart open even when (a few! Just a few!) people express contrary opinions. 

When my hour is up, I put my signs away and feel like celebrating.  How curious that simply spending one hour a week in silent protest of an injustice—a modest commitment by any standard—can stop all the restless anxiety that otherwise drives me to multi-task, over-schedule, drink, and over-eat either to justify my existence or distract myself from its pain. 

What would my life be like if I committed an hour a day—or, here’s a crazy idea—my entire life to living in expression of my values and ideals?  I wouldn’t need to buy, eat, drink, or do much of anything else.  My restlessness would be “handled.”  I’d be living a fulfilled life.

Wow.