August 2005

Pilgrimage to Peace Part IV

posted by snarko on Saturday, August 13 2005

Cindy Sheehan's Talk and the Bush Supporters

One of Cindy's first comments once she got up to the microphone was that when she saw the hundreds of cars caravaning here on the horizon, she started to cry. Thank you all." My estimate number (always between media left and right reports, and not cuz I'm trying): 450.

"When I lost my son, I thought I'd also lost my hope. But I know now that's not true. Today is the first day of the end of the war."

She ain't budging. I mean that. She's gonna, as promised, make his "vacation" less of one, in reparation for the over 1800 other "vacations" by American families ruined this year.

The scene was great, honestly. I haven't seen so much sharing of food, water, transportation (our van alone took in four strangers at times), ideas, sunscreen, or smiles at a single event.

Until the other side showed up.

So I got my answer to, "Who would take pot shots at Cindy?" Fifteen or so counter-demonstrators with faces red, veins popping out of their foreheads, spit flailing from their mouths at every word, who were shouting obscene language when Cindy asked for a minute of silence. Okay, well only one of them was quite this bad. BUT THAT'S BAAAAD!

At first, with my head bowed, I thought it was the voice of a certain anarchist I'd hoped hadn't shown and was starting trouble. Nope. "Stop being Michael Moore's puppet," was their battle cry, for the record. Cuz I was surly I shouted back at some point, "Did Limbaugh tell you to say that?!"

They were less than fifteen feet from my camp, sorry. Me and Amber thought about taking them melons or water or something but realized effort futile. And then I noticed something.

"Hey! WHERE ARE YOUR WOMEN?!?!" There weren't any women, save a three-year-old girl, and obviously she's not there of her own "free will". They were worse than the doctor. He was just rude.

I was disappointed I didn't get to talk to Cindy directly, as I turned my attention to Jesus who'd just found his son's "grave" and she was tied up with press, and when I turned around, she wasn't there.

But there's always next weekend. But I'd like to think there won't be.

Pilgrimage to Peace Part III

posted by snarko on Saturday, August 13 2005

The Dreaded Triangle

This bring us to the Dreaded Triangle. Thank God I didn't have to put up with the trench walk I heard the police made the demonstrators do earlier in the week. We had to park in a ditch nearly sloped 45û. Anyway, the Triangle, it's this maybe 60 feet from corner to corner plot of dead grass, between three joining roads. Camp Casey surrounds it on two sides, between the roads and the property fences.

I'm sure you're reading about this plot of dead grass on blogs everywhere, so wait, I'll draw this, it's easier. The dotted lines are all fences, usually barbed wire, marking ranch property lines:



Okay, so apparently one of the rules is that we can't hang out on the Triangle. It was suggested that we could put one foot in, but that we had to take it back out.

So of course I do the hokey pokey. It was realy quite ridiculous. No, the Triangle thingie I mean. You couldn't cross it to get from the tents on one side to the main shrine tent without attracting the sherrif's helicopter even closer overhead.

Pilgrimage to Peace Part II

posted by snarko on Saturday, August 13 2005

Peace Rally & Arlington in Crawford

SO we found the rally just down the road far enough so the two camps can't hear each other, a few miles from Camp Casey.

At noon, about 300 people, which I thought FAB considering this is honestly the middle of nowhere (in case you missed my former note: almost half the town's population). The vibe was so different, should have known. Cuz the first felt like "confusion" and was as stale as the doctor's scrubs; at the next one I was greeted with, "Do you need water?"

That vibe ran all day long. People brought food and water and sunscreen and pop-up shade and sign making stuff everyone just traded with everybody else. Just when I thought the kindness might end, a truck would pull up with ice and water bottles in the bed and drive half-a-mile-an-hour asking if anyone needed it.

I noted Code Pink in da house and, I'm happy to say, at least two dozen of the people I worked with on Dennis's campaign. We were apparently "late" for this part, as we caught two songs only from probably the best performer I'd ever heard at a peace rally, honestly, and two speeches from members of Cindy's organization, Gold Star Families for Peace, who are mostly families members of fallen US soldiers from the war in Iraq.

They asked Bush to talk to Cindy. They called for an exit date from Iraq. They called for an end of the control of the oil and seemingly permanent occupation so we can get help from the UN. And most of all, they asked Bush to restore the benefits he took from the veterans and take care of them when they get home.

The move to Camp Casey was slow going. Police blocked us from exiting until the sheriff arrived, and that was half an hour. A lot of us don't have air conditioning and are dying out here. I got out to smoke and stretch and see why there was a blockade (taking my camera, just in case).

An organizer I know to be usually even-keeled was looking irritated and animated speaking with police, so I took pictures and let them know I was doing it, just in case. But it was as I said, just taking forever.

We got to where the beginning of the crosses from the Arlington at Crawford display were. Traffic going to the camp was at less than ten miles an hour, so I jumped out to take pictures.

I told my friends that with traffic as is, and I could see the camp, I'd just walk.

I felt I should walk the distance reading the name on every cross. Not long enough to remember them in a game of Trivial Pursuit, but long enough to acknowledge each. And got sick to my stomach when, at some point, I was like, "YOU MEAN THERE'S MORE?!?!?!"

More and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more

dead.

I stopped to take a photo of an obviously Mexican name, and a Mexican gentleman was near me at the time and seemed a bit upset. My defensive self (still working on it) said, "I hope you don't have the wrong idea. I'm taking this photo to show it's your people, too." And he replied, "No, I'm sorry if I gave you that idea. I'm looking for the name of my son."

My heart sank. I gave him a hug, and later watched Jesus (his name) putting his son's photo and flowers on his "grave" after he'd found it–nearer the camp than just about anyone, hundreds upon hundreds of names later.

Pilgrimage to Peace Part I

posted by snarko on Saturday, August 13 2005

Report from Ground Zero: Cindy Sheehan at Camp Casey

CRAWFORD, TEXAS: SO, Friday the new guy at work leaves a voicemail asking me what I'm doing Saturday. "Thinking about going to Crawford," he said. Miah's started Texans Against Checkpoints, amongst his many actions, and has recently decided to only wear political or social message t-shirts, so he usually knows a good time when he hears of one.

He, his wife Amber who works for the American Cancer Society, Reevus—teacher of my boss's daughter at a Montessouri school, and self decided to go only last night, around 10pm, and left this morning.

I've been a fan of Cindy's for some time, although I'd been busy and only casually following the Cindy Crawford thing, although I'd shouted, "You go girl!" when I'd first heard about it.

She's one of the people that when I feel like banging my head off a wall I'm like, "CINDY didn't give up yet!" Heck, Crawford's not that far. And besides, it gets John S. Hall of King Missile stuck in my head screaming, "Let's go protest! Let's shake shit up! Cuz it's Saturday and… there's… nothing else… to do!!!"

Which always makes me laugh out loud just thinking about and everyone around me is wondering why I'm laughing so hard at nothing. Anyway, I digress…

On the van ride in, after reading some stories and such early this morning about the counter-demonstrators and their behavior, I had to ask, "What kind of person would take pot shots at a person who's lost their son, even if they disagree?" I mean, I don't do that to my enemies. If they're down you don't kick them.

I got my answer. But more on that later.

None of us had been to Crawford (population 703) but found the Peace House quickly. Interestingly, when I talked with a Peace House member later, he told me NOT ONE PERSON working for the place was from Crawford. He was from Waco.

[The Peace House people all were out with signs pointing how to get to Camp Casey, so if you're making the pilgrimage and afraid you can't find it, don't be. They're on the first main street into town off the freeway and you can't miss it.]

We followed the instructions they gave us to the Peace Rally site, which we heard we would caravan to Camp Casey from later. We eventually we saw cars and people and pulled over.

I swear when my foot hit the dried grass beneath me as I exited the van I heard crickets. Nothing seemed to be HAPPENING, which made my hair stand on end as my inner guard took over. Scanning the scene quickly, I noted about 50 people, mostly sitting on folding camp chairs, and mostly saying nothing.

When we got out, Amber mentioned there were too many American flags for her comfort. As many flags as people; about 50. "That means nothing," I said, trying to reassure her, but still scanning the scene. "We could be in either camp. Veterans for Peace?"

Nay.

A vulture in doctor's garb swooped down in less than 15 seconds. He seemed articulate, but I couldn't quite tell through the adrenaline-driven heavy breathing.

"You don't belong here you don't have a permit for here you can't park here you don't belong I'm calling the police right now." Surly I know but was this dude RUDE without provocation: I dunno if he "figured us out" because we were too young, thin, smiling, and brought women with us; or if he thunk to himself, "Jesus Christ, what man of God would have long hair like that?!"

In the meantime (this whole scene is like less than two minutes, mind you), several people got on cellphones screaming at the police that terrorists had infiltrated, people took photos of the license plate on the van, and other vultures started circling us.

"How do you know we're in the wrong place?" I heard Miah ask.

"I saw your shirt." It has only one word on it: Peace.

"Is this bad?" Miah asked, soundingly genuinely confused, pointing at his shirt.

"Yes, it's very bad."

Whoa. Guess we can't ask for directions. We left while cops were pulling up.