This idea came to me after reading Jane Mayer's chilling piece on David Addington in
The New Yorker.
Steve Newman
Philadelphia, PA
Torture on the Fourth of July; or, I had a dream
I dreamt that you had a dream, and in that dream you were surprised to find yourself strapped to a chair with your eyes taped open. You were in front of a screen, and across that screen these images flickered:
--A man with cellophane wrapped around his head has water poured over him; it fills his lungs and he gags and thrashes in panic. He begs to confess to crimes he hasn't committed. The flow of water stops for a moment. His interrogators do not think his confession sufficient. The water begins to pour on him again. Through the magic of dreams, you feel your own lungs fill and you convulse in panic.
--You see a man in his underwear with a hood over his head. "His hands are handcuffed between his legs, forcing him to lean forward, thus shifting his center of gravity forward. His legs are chained to a door behind him. If the man falls he will fall on his head as his legs are whipped out from under him by the chain leading to the door. This is a "stress position" in action. According to Pentagon rules this man could be forced to maintain this position for hours, perhaps even days." (http://www.warblogging.com/...) Through the magic of dreams, you feel your own thighs and shoulders ache from hours of standing in this position; and you feel the bile in your throat rise as you wonder what will happen if you slip.
--You see a family in a modest house, huddling around the picture of their missing father/brother/son. His name is Zakirjan Hassam from Uzbekistan or Adel, a Uighur from China,or..... They were turned into U. S. Forces by bounty hunters; a military tribunal has cleared them of any wrongdoing. Still, they remain in Guantanomo; they have heard about the recent suicides, and it begins to sound like the best way out to them. Their family weeps, and you tremble with their anguish.
--You see Osama bin Laden sitting at a table in a lavish living-room; you clench your teeth in rage. Then, in strides Ayman al-Zawahiri, and he hands some pictures to bin Laden. Bin Laden looks at them and then looks up at al-Zawahiri. They grin at each other. You see that they are pictures from Abu Ghraib. Your neck snaps back as if you've been struck by a car.
--You see the Founding Fathers and other heroes from American history (Abraham Lincoln, Fannie Lou Hamer, Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, to name a few). They are seated at a table, each holding a book bound in black leather. On it, in red letters, is printed, "Gitmo and Abu Ghraib." They begin to leaf through it, and they gasp in horror. They look up, toward you, and shake their heads. You burn with shame.
--You see a historian at his desk; the year is 2025. On his computer screen, you can just make out, ". . .and the darkest point in the Bush presidency was the licensing of torture. Despite its manifest illegality and immorality, despite the great damage it did to this nation's reputation (and continues to do), President Bush continued to pursue it, disgusting our allies and making new enemies. We still have not recovered." You wish you could wake up.
--Finally, you see Allah (peace be upon him) and Jesus Christ in heaven. Jesus pulls out a picture of Osama bin Laden and asks, "You have nothing to do with him, right?" "Right, though he seems to think so," says Allah. "And what about this one," Allah asks in return, pulling out a picture you can't see: "You have nothing to with him, right?" "Right," says Christ, "Though I'd embrace him if he repented and really started understanding Me." You still can't see the picture. But you know damn well who it is.
And the dream ends. You wake up screaming.
I had to dream that you had this dream, Mr. President, because nothing else seems to be able to penetrate the wall of willful ignorance you have constructed around yourself. Nothing seems powerful enough to get through that fortress of arrogance that you somehow understand as love of country and presidential prerogative. Not the protests of principled officials in your own administration. Not the duly-elected representatives of the people on Capitol Hill. Not the masses of American citizens you dismiss as "focus groups." Not leaders of friendly governments who seem to understand what's best for this great nation better than you do, not concerned people from around the world, not the voices you should be able to hear from American history. So perhaps a dream will wake you up to the immorality of torture, to the stain you are leaving on this nation's history, to the pain you are inflicting on so many around the world.
In the Bible, a text you proclaim some familiarity with, dreams are the vehicle of prophecy. Jacob dreamt of angels and a vision of a nation to come; Joseph dreamt famine and prosperity that came true; John dreamt of a new heaven and a new earth. May it be the same for you.
I dream a dream for me, too. I dream that I can master my rage rather than let it master me. I dream that I will no longer take any pleasure in the thought of your suffering some tiny bit of the anguish you visit on others, since this is a cheap pleasure and against what my better angel tells me. After all, torture is wrong for everybody.
And I dream that we can all survive another two-and-a-half years of your misrule and that we can all wake up before then. Because, Mr. President, I have a 10-month old daughter, and I want her to be able to have dreams of her own, unsullied by your addiction to torture. I dream the same dream of compassion for all of us.
So I had a dream.
Happy 4th of July, Mr. President.