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| Russ and Ann at Protest...Russ is thrilled to be there. |
I wrote this for the Santa Barbara Independent on the 1-year anniversary of the Iraq invasion. One year earlier, on Febuary 15, 2003, in a desperate attempt to stop the war, an estimated 10 million people took to the streets across the globe in the biggest protest the world has ever seen. Five thousand people marched and rallied in Santa Barbara. We said the invasion of Iraq was illegal, was justified by a web of lies and would weaken our country and cause vast human suffering. It is cold comfort that we were right.
For the grim anniversary of the invasion of Iraq I bought my
10-year-old son Russ a book, “2/15 The Day the World Said No to War”, a photo
journal documenting the day millions of people around the world protested
together for peace. Russ didn’t need much explanation of the book’s
significance. He had lived and breathed anti-war protesting that winter and
spring of 2003, not always enthusiastically (“It really cuts into my playtime”)
but dutifully.
“History won’t be kind to this war,” I would tell him. “I
want you to be able remember that your family wasn’t silent in the face of a
terrible wrong.”
To amuse himself during the tedious rallies before the
marching, yelling and drumming started, he would play commando, crouching
behind trees and “Give Peace a Chance” signs while firing his imaginary
turbo-ballistic-death-ray at passing pacifists.
What can I say? He’s a boy.
He is a boy raised by non-violent parents, in an extended family of
gentle if slightly nerdy men, in a home with no TV or Video Games, and, like
all the boys in my relatively large but admittedly not scientifically
significant sample, he is fascinated with weapons. When he could barely toddle he would place
his tiny hand in mine, gaze up at me adoringly, then pick up a stick and start
whacking things with it. When he learned I would not buy toy guns he made them
out of wooden educational toys. When he learned I would not buy a game-boy he
made one out of legos and played imaginary shoot-‘em-up games on it complete
with lively sound effects. My Mother’s
Day gifts are drawings of artillery.
When I have ventured to comment that this type of play disturbs
me a bit, especially at actual Peace Rallies his response is, “ Mom, I’m
playing. They are not real guns.”
(Duh!).
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| Story as it appeared in Independent in 2004 |
In spite of his choice of play activities I have to admit
that Russ does not hit other children, evacuates all unwanted bugs from the
house and places them gently in the garden and distributes ample, soulful
hugs. When he was four he went through a
period of time when he literally hugged everyone: everyone single person at the
post office or the Food Coop, everyone in line at the credit union and all the
tellers too. I remember being at an
outdoor festival when Russ noticed a very frail elderly woman being helped to a
seat. “Mommy, I love her!” he exclaimed and ran off to make sure she knew. Needless to say, my little ray of sunshine and
I were very popular around town. I felt that I moved through the world
accompanied by a wide-open window to the divine.
Even as we protested the war, I tried to shield Russ from
the wretched news that came from that place of killing. Nevertheless, he heard a radio report about
Ali Abbas, the boy who lost his entire family and both his arms to a U.S.
missile. Russ was devastated with grief.
“I will remember him my whole life” he told me and this is no doubt true. Russ
wrote to his Congressman, Elton Gallegly, “I feel sad because he is a kid just
like me and he deserves as much as me. He is my friend…I want you to know that
the war isn’t a good idea and many people just like you and me are getting
killed.” Gallegly responded by
acknowledging the sadness of “unavoidable” tragedy even as he justified the
war, which he continues to support. Apparently, like many, he fails to see what
is crystal clear to Russ: real guns, real children. (Duh!).
Some people say that the devotion of boys to weapons and
play fighting proves that violent conflict is the natural order for
humans. But is children’s capacity for
love and empathy any less natural? I
would argue the potential for both are innate.
How our children go forward in the world will be determined by which one
we value and model. To the boys I know, there is no ambiguity. Play is play.
Violence is violence. As Russ’s friend Aaron put it, pausing in his game of
gruesome-alien-space-invaders to comment on the war, “At school we’re not
allowed to fight. We are supposed to use our words.” (Duh!)
Russ and I attended a “Festival for Peace” last year and
were admiring the many peaceful objects put out for sale when Russ noticed an
assortment of small bronze Buddha statues. He was particularly attracted to the
ones with all the extra arms. “Mom, I want a Buddha.” He announced.
I felt pleased. “Of course I’ll get you a Buddha, son.”
He examined the statues for another moment then said.
“Actually Mom, I want two Buddhas.”
“I think one Buddha is enough. Why would you need two Buddhas?” I asked.
He paused, gauging my likely reaction, then dove in, “I need
two so I can make them fight.”
I imagined the duel to the death of the multi-armed
ninja-cyborg-buddhas, in each hand a different flaming-laser-blaster, then, rather
lamely, admonished, “Russ, Buddhas don’t
fight. That’s the whole point of Buddhas.”
“Mom, they’re not real Buddhas.” (Duh!)
