It was maybe two years ago when my father asked in frustration, "Where are all the war protesters?" Understand that he was not a child of the ‘60s, but of the generation before that, the one that looked askance – or in horror – at the demonstrations that I remember from images on the television when I was growing up. He recognized the value of that popular outrage at a war that he’d first supported and finally lost faith in. And where were they all now?
I knew that there were protesters out there. A group of women in the college town where I live in the reddest of states meets every Tuesday for a vigil. I had thought about joining them, but never did, even though I felt strongly against the war. Why not? Inertia is all I can think of.
Daddy and I talked about the fact that the draft had galvanized the anti-war movement forty years ago. It was an awful thing to think of it hanging over the heads of my brothers, my friends, and my cousins. But then it ended, and now after all these years my son was a member of the all-volunteer military, proud of the choice he made to serve his country and believing it is the best choice for his family in terms of economic security. I disagree on the latter point, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.
Also I missed the protest movement completely generation-wise, coming along just as the Viet Nam War wound down. In contrast, my friend Judy was older and had been very much a part of the anti-war movement of the 1960s, attending rallies with her husband and children in Michigan. The two of us often talked about the Iraq war over our knitting and wine, wishing there was something we could do. Then two weeks ago Judy said, "I’m tired of talking. Want to join the Women in Black on Tuesday?"
I did. Iraq was bad enough. The talk of war with Iran too pushed me to action. Could our elected officials really not see what a disaster everything George Bush had touched was fast becoming? Standing on the sidewalk an hour a week seemed too little to do in the face of such insanity, but it would be a start.
So this week we joined the four-year-old weekly protest. The university is between semesters so the group was small, around a dozen people. Most were my age or older, veterans of another generation of public activism. They had posters and banners made up that we could hold. One said "Honk for Peace." The first thing I noticed was that the major intersection was never free from honking for more than a minute at a time. And often it was a cacophony of honks in agreement. I was encouraged already. A regular told me that this was very different from when they had first started out.
We stood and sweated and waved at the honkers for peace. A couple of young women passing by smiled and said, "Honk, honk!" One thanked us for doing this. No one was hateful. This is a testament to the fortitude of those who have been doing this long before I dragged my sorry self out of the AC and onto the pavement. I wish I’d been with them then. But Judy and I will go back, and we will be a part of the Iraq War Moratorium on September 21, appropriately, my son’s birthday. I can’t wait to tell my dad.
This is to encourage anyone else who’s not done this to go for it. It might be awkward. It might be awful. Or you might be reassured as I was on Tuesday by the sight of a small hand rising from the back seat of a passing car, making a peace sign in response.