Peace Commando

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!).

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!)