Candlelight Peace March

Day Two: March 19 marks the fifth anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Many events are planned throughout the United States, and the World… vigils, peace marches, and non-violent protests. Over the next days, we will be using this blog to add our voices to the growing crescendo, calling for an end to war and a return to peace and justice… the thoughts, words written, and events we have attended over these past five years, while tens of thousands of men, women, and children have met their death through no fault of their own. Stand up and let your voice be heard. We must end this violence.

Candlelight Peace March - 2003

Saturday, January 18, 2003 marked a day of massive antiwar demonstrations in this country. Perhaps a quarter of a million people in Washington D.C., 200,000 people in San Francisco, and 30,000 in Portland Oregon. My heart was in those places - I yearned to be a part of a bigger-than-life event such as these. To be surrounded by thousands of other people who feel as I do. But it was not to be, so I prepared candles for our Friday Harbor, Washington Peace March instead.

We arrived at dusk as the last rays of sun colored the sky west of the Courthouse with broad strokes of pink and orange. Dressed warmly with heavy jackets and wool knit caps, we rounded the back corner of the Courthouse to see only a handful of people standing near a picnic table on the lawn. Bob asked the questions. “Are you sure this is where we are supposed to meet? Is this the right day?” My heart sank. “Just once I would like to be a part of something bigger than myself,” I bemoaned. Bob reminded me that even this handful was more than either of us had had with us when we protested the First Gulf War. He was right of course, but I had hoped for more.

In the next five minutes our small group doubled in size. A man sat on the picnic table bench quietly strumming a guitar. A slender, bearded father in his forties stood nearby with his 10 to 11 year old son, a couple in their fifties waited quietly under a maple tree, a single grey-haired gentleman arrived with a big smile. Small groups of two to three joined us. By now it was dark enough to light our candles - and the numbers grew. We counted 80, then 150. And they continued to come. I recognized other artists; a Quaker who had purchased one of my botanicals, and Joe, a gentle man dedicated to helping others. Three teenage girls crossed the street to join the crowd, and a mother pushing a red canvas stroller. Families. Little children bundled up for the full moon night. A striking young woman arrived dressed all in black. She had painted a black oily tear running from her left eye. More musicians arrived - another guitar and a man carrying a harmonica and ukulele.

Some folks brought their own signs and I wished I had thought to bring one. Then I saw a man with an armload of red, white, and blue printed signs that said “No War Against Iraq.” He was handing them out to anyone who wanted one. Another man came with an armful of handmade cardboard signs - each with a different sentiment. He leaned them against the trunk of a tree for anyone to take. Bob walked over and read each one before finally choosing one to carry.

There was the sound of laughter and of friends greeting friends. Song sheets were handed out. The guitarists strummed old antiwar songs from the 1960’s. “Give Peace a Chance.” A few voices joined in, remembering other protests, other wars.

It was dark by now and the Courthouse lawn was a sea of bright candles. We wondered when we would start the march up Park Street, and then overheard the organizer say that the inter-island ferry hadn’t arrived yet. How many peace marches wait for the ferry? It reminded us that we live in a unique place. While we waited, the newspaper photographer climbed the tree behind us to get an overhead shot of the crowd. “Hey Bob, hold your sign up so that it covers the dead spot.” Bob held up his sign.

Finally the ferry arrived and what had been only a handful of people when we first came, now numbered between 200 to 300 people. We began to move slowly, peacefully away from the Courthouse towards Park Street, a ribbon of candlelight wending its way up the hill to the Episcopal Church. “Amazing Grace” was sung, with some of us just humming. Bob and I were in the middle of the long stretch of people. I looked back at the sea of faces bright in candlelight. It brought a lump in my throat and it was all I could do to hold back tears.

This wasn’t the tens of thousands who marched in Washington D.C. or San Francisco, but these were members of our own community, young and old, who chose to come out on a raw January night to be counted; to say NO to war, and yes to peaceful resolutions.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.

Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

... P. L. Morningstar
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Finding My Voice

March 19 marks the fifth anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Many events are planned throughout the United States, and the World… vigils, peace marches, and non-violent protests. Soapbox Poets for Peace is issuing a NATIONAL CALL TO ACTION for Poets of conscience to come to D.C. on Wednesday, March 19th, armed only with poems of peace, witness, truth, mourning and outrage. Over the next nine days, we will be using this blog to add our voices to the growing crescendo, calling for an end to war and a return to peace and justice… the thoughts, words written, and events attended these past five years – while tens of thousands of men, women, and children have met their death through no fault of their own. We must end this craziness.

Finding my Voice
January 18, 2003

I was a young mother in the 1960’s, married to a recently graduated chemical engineer. He was just beginning his upwardly mobile climb in the world of giant corporations and had received draft deferment through his employment with a major chemical company. Since I had no friends or relatives in the military, all that I knew of the Vietnam War was what I read in the newspaper headlines or saw on television. We lived in the southeastern corner of Texas - not exactly known for liberalism or radicals, especially the long-haired kind wearing Birkenstocks and carrying peace signs. I still believed that my country followed a moral high ground, and trusted that my president and his administration were doing what was best for our country and the world. While tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians were being killed in a country I knew little about, and while other twenty year olds were being jailed for taking part in sit-ins and protest marches, I teased my hair into a beehive, joined a garden club, played duplicate bridge, fed babies, and dutifully played the role of career-enhancing wife.

I ironed clothes while I watched Martin Luther King Jr. on TV giving his famous “I Have a Dream” speech before a crowd of 200,000 people in Washington D.C. I was impressed by what he said, but looking back now I realize he was way ahead of me. It has taken me years to realize the truth in what he said on that day. It took almost three decades before I found the passion and the courage to stand alone in front of my local post office in 1990, to protest the First Gulf War. There were supposed to be others, but I was the only one who showed up carrying my handmade antiwar sign. It occurred to me that I could just quietly leave and no one would know the difference - but in my heart I knew I had to stay. I was there to do more than protest the Gulf War - I was doing penance for the years I had lived in comfortable American ignorance while wars and covert military actions were taking place.

With full knowledge that a corporate vice president’s wife protesting on a busy street corner might stir up unwanted controversy in my husband’s career, I stood my ground for an hour. I didn’t make the newspaper or appear on the nightly news. I didn’t get jailed. Only those folks who passed me on their way to and from the post office, knew of my silent protest. The Gulf War took place anyway; the whole world watched it on their television screens, minus the blood and horror of dying innocent people. We were Top Gun. But while my protest was not successful in deterring the war, it did make a difference in my life. I was once again that young girl who spoke out against injustice; who spoke up for fair treatment and refused to apologize for my impassioned words, when I believed them to be true. The phrase “She hath a tongue with a tang,” was written under my graduation picture in the high school yearbook because of my fiery words to a teacher in defense of another student. For too many years that tongue had been silent.

Bob and I often reflect upon our individual Gulf War protests. While I stood alone in front of the post office, he and three others stood in front of the county Court House receiving jeers and crude remarks from passing motorists. We laughingly say that we were destined to get together. Now we will join others in another protest against another war. When will this ever end?

Tomorrow’s posting will describe the January 18, 2003 Peace March.

... P. L. Morningstar
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