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3-30-05, 9:33 am
It’s a dark time for peace when pacifists are lunatics and pro-war means pro-life.
Listen:
On the recent second anniversary of the Iraq War, I was driving along Interstate 95 in the early afternoon, somewhere outside Bangor, Maine, when a cherry red SUV pulled into my lane. Looking down, I noticed a yellow bumper sticker in the shape of a ribbon. It read: “Support Our Troops.”
I felt guilty. It was a phrase that has haunted me for two years.
I started looking for similar stickers. And over the next few hours, I saw about 20 (inexplicably they were always on SUVs, Mini-Vans, and trucks – never on cars). I also saw a handful of Bush/Cheney stickers and Kerry/Edwards Stickers. Interestingly, I didn’t see a single anti-war bumper sticker.
Not one.
Meantime in Florida, Pro-Life protesters maintain a deathwatch outside the hospital of Terri Schiavo. They loudly demand that all Americans value each individual life – even to the point of subverting the law. Yet, ironically, they – and millions more who agree with them – vote overwhelmingly to support the continuing two-year, open-ended slaughter of Iraqis by the thousands: men, women, and children. That is to say, pro-war means pro-life.
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Why? I wondered. After a while, I decided the reason was this: pacifism in America is an admission of insanity.
Let me explain: I don’t support the war in Iraq. And I don’t support the president who started it. So, logically, I don’t support the troops who fight it – though, certainly, I don’t wish them any harm.
But by not “supporting the troops,” I have been accused of supporting demonic dictators, Iraqi militants, Islamic terrorists, and chemotherapy for cancer-ridden cows.
Here is an example: since the start of the Iraq War, I’ve worn a small peace button, an old yellow and black relic of the early seventies, borrowed from a colleague at the school where I teach. The button fits nicely on my coat, so each morning I clip it on and go about my day.
One morning, I was standing in line at a coffee shop. In front of me was a tall, barrel-chested man in his fifties. He wore a Red Sox ball cap and a dark-blue windbreaker. The line was long and slow moving, so the man turned a bit to make small talk – the weather, the sports scores.
At one point, his eyes drifted down to my peace button, and he stopped talking. Then, after a long pause, he said, “Hey buddy, don’t you support the troops?”
“Well, no,” I said, “I don’t support the troops. I support peace, right?” I pointed at the button and managed a thin smile.
“What d’ya mean?” he said, turning full toward me.
“You know,” I tried to explain, “guns and bombs, no matter what their owner’s intentions, are not particularly peaceful, right?”
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The fellow looked angry. His chin went up, his chest went out. “So,” he barked, “you support the terrorists.” When he said “you,” his index finger jabbed at my button.
“Well, no, I mean, that’s silly,” I said. “Anyone who gasses his own people to death or knocks down buildings with airplanes is scum. But, you know, that said, violence doesn’t come in the humane and inhumane variety, right?” I kept smiling, hoping somehow to mollify my line-mate, and wondering why the line was moving so slowly.
“Typical liberal,” he said with disgust, “your kind just encourages more terrorism. You should take that pin off and keep your mouth shut.”
Did I open my mouth? I just wanted coffee.
The fellow shook his head and walked away, frustrated, no doubt, by my obvious support of the Axis of Evil.
That evening I called a childhood friend who lives outside of Boston. Politically, he had always been a moderate, often even liberal on some issues. So, during our conversation, I felt safe mentioning my little peace button and my conversation at the coffee shop.
My mistake.
“Frankly,” my friend said, “I don’t like these war protesters and their criticisms of America.” He complained about a “peace type” who brought his three-year old son to a protest march marking the first anniversary of the war. At the march, the “peace type” with the child was arrested. “Irresponsible!” my friend howled.
Needless to say, I didn’t mention having brought my four-year-old daughter to a similar protest march.
Then my friend related a story about another “peace group,” this one in Boston. They were “a bunch of crazed vegetarians,” he said, “raising money for chemotherapy – for a cancer-ridden cow!” His anger was rising. “My god,” he said, “these peace types are just crazy. They don’t support our troops in Iraq, but they want to save some stupid cow with cancer!”
The conversation ended. But his words stayed with me – in fact, they have stayed with me from that morning in the coffee shop until that day on Interstate 95. And I still feel guilty.
Why do I feel guilty?
Consider: the accusation of “not supporting the troops” is a foolproof means of undermining pacifism. It plays like the old Groucho Marx joke: “So, have you stopped beating your wife? Answer yes or no.” No matter how you answer the question, you sound guilty.
Or in my case, you sound like the dupe of nefarious, woolly-minded, liberal peaceniks whose secret plan – if I understand the logic – is to support dictators, Islamic extremists, terrorists – and chemotherapy for cancer ridden cows. That is to say, pacifists are lunatics.
Meantime in Florida, Pro-Life protesters maintain a deathwatch outside the hospital of Terri Schiavo. They loudly demand that all Americans value each individual life – even to the point of subverting the law. Yet, ironically, they – and millions more who agree with them – vote overwhelmingly to support the continuing two-year, open-ended slaughter of Iraqis by the thousands: men, women, and children. That is to say, pro-war means pro-life.
So you tell me: who should feel guilty?
It’s a dark time for peace when pacifists are lunatics and pro-war means pro-life.
--Steven Laffoley is an American writer living in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. You may e-mail him at
stevenlaffoley@yahoo.ca
or steven_laffoley@yahoo.com.
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