57. The Paradigm Shift of the Aikido Tough Guy
Stephen Covey speaks extensively on “Paradigm Shift”. As most readers know by now, this is simply a profound change of perspective, or worldview, or “paradigm”, that changes a person in his heart, not just in the mind.
I hope you’ll read Dr. Covey’s work. The uber-famous Seven Habits of Highly Effective People records one of my favorite examples of paradigm shift as a personal experience of Stephen’s, and today I will share another.
Nowhere is the concept of determined conflict reduction, or Powerful Peace, so rigorously applied as in the aikido dojo. Aikido was developed by a great master of the fighting arts, Morihei Ueshiba. His title throughout the world of Japanese martial arts, whether karate, jujutsu, judo, or others, is “O-Sensei“…”Great Teacher”.
O-Sensei
O-Sensei came to realize, after decades of perfecting his ability to destroy his enemy, that the urge to cause harm to others is a sign of something wrong in oneself. It’s a spiritual or emotional unwellness. If the hostile person is already sick, he reasoned, why in the world should I kick his butt and doubly harm him? How much better it would be if I can protect both of us from this violence that is eating him alive. When it’s all gone he feels better, and I have a new friend.
One of the earliest disciples of aikido was Terry Dobson, a large, white American man who moved to Japan to study aikido full-time for several years.
This is his story.
THE TRAIN CLANKED and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that she was unharmed.
Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I like to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight.
“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”
I listened to his words. I tried hard I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.
This is it! I said to myself, getting to my feet. People are in danger and if I don’t do something fast, they will probably get hurt.
Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” He roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!”
I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.
“All right! He hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.
A split second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he suddenly stumbled upon it. “Hey!”
I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.
“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand lightly.
The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer.
“What’cha been drinkin’?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.
“Ok, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree had done better than I expected, though especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.
As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said. “I love persimmons too…” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, “and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.
“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I am so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.
Now it was my turn. Standing there in well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.
Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said, “that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.
Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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56. Let’s Exchange Combat Photos and Discuss Powerful Peace
A Poignant Message from a Special Forces Operator
Good Reader, the most profound event occurred this week. Powerful Peace has been growing so dramatically in support from every sector, from peace hippies to religious leaders to my still-serving SEAL Teammates; this incident provides dramatic testimony to what we’re all experiencing.
It’s especially apropos to note that this movement is coming of age in the geographic ground-zero of military operations and violent extremist ideologies in the world today: Baghdad, my home for the year.
Back to the narrative: A couple of days ago I received an email from a Special Forces friend in support of Powerful Peace. Specifically, he said, “Keep up the great message.”
In the same email, he attached inner circle (meant for those of us in the community) photos of his commando unit during recent combat operations in Afghanistan.
Imagine this: ongoing combat operations, conducting what Powerful Peace terms “necessary violence” in defense of military units and townspeople in remote wastelands…combined with an appreciation of this “great message”.
Is your mind beginning to wrap around the surreal nature of the interaction?
We all want peace; we just acknowledge it in different ways. SEALs want safety and security for their families, as do schoolteachers, electricians, musicians, ministers and generals.
Those who are involved in peacemaking within their domain (which ultimately could include every member of the species) understand the steps they can take within their domain. If you are not directly involved in tactical operations, would you have considered that SEALs and Green Berets would line up behind Powerful Peace as a “great message”, or would you have assumed that we all just want to hurt things?
There is a great surge of awareness rising worldwide for what is being advocated in Powerful Peace. In her Secretarial confirmation hearing this week, Senator Clinton emphasized one, primary point for the global way ahead: the urgency of America’s embracing the balanced use of hard and soft power, or what we all now call “Smart Power”. Again, it is important to tip a hat to former Assistant Secretary of Defense Joseph Nye for coining the terms Soft and Smart Power, now so comfortably ingrained in the national vernacular.
President-elect Obama has been saying essentially the same thing for months as he stressed increased diplomatic engagement worldwide without ignoring the potential need for force (again, “necessary violence”, which is grossly outweighed by vast currents of ignorance-based “unnecessary violence” coursing across the planet).
Powerful Peace Enlists the Universal Desire for Security
Powerful Peace regulars and other, longer-term customers of mine have heard this message, in every way I could think to say it, for many years. One version of this message is the “Think Like the Adversary” briefing I wrote and began presenting to government clients soon after 9/11.
Engagement! It edifies all sides. Communication! We shy away from such common-sense measures in our marriages, in our neighborhoods, and in our international conflicts. Engagement has an undeserved bad rap. It is not some touchy-feely appeasement, but an invaluable tool that everyone must use – if for no other reason than to benefit themselves.
I don’t need to like you in order to benefit from engagement with you.
One common side-effect of engagement is that we actually can come to like a former opponent; maybe this is why we shy away from it. It threatens to shake up our worldview.
Great warriors and great diplomats alike have preached for millenia: “Know the other, and know yourself.” Engagement is the most effective method for developing both of these.
Not engaging leads to inaccurate assessments, increasing a sense of isolation with its corresponding suspicion/animosity, and opportunities for the most ridiculous assumptions to fill in the intentionally unknown space between.
For example, I was taught as a child in the 70’s to “kill a Commie for Mommy”. Is this propaganda any less obvious than that of the Soviets, the Chinese and the contemporary Iranian government?
As lyrical evidence, I present the following song made famous by Sting during the height of the Cold War in the 1980’s. This was the same time that I set off into the world to learn Russian, become a great Soviet specialist, and counter the Red Menace that kept millions on edge about the mysterious threat.
It is also the time that a small voice in the back of my young mind said that “they” were as human as “we”; it told me, privately and confidently, that one day I would work alongside these greatly exaggerated boogie-men. (For that story, please read an earlier Powerful Peace article published in 2008.)
“Russians”
In Europe and America, there’s a growing feeling of hysteria
Conditioned to respond to all the threats
In the rhetorical speeches of the Soviets
Mr. Krushchev said we will bury you
I don’t subscribe to this point of view
It would be such an ignorant thing to do
If the Russians love their children too
How can I save my little boy from Oppenheimer’s deadly toy
There is no monopoly in common sense
On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too
There is no historical precedent
To put the words in the mouth of the President
There’s no such thing as a winnable war
It’s a lie that we don’t believe anymore
Mr. Reagan says we will protect you
I don’t subscribe to this point of view
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too
We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
What might save us, me, and you
Is if the Russians love their children too
Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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55. The Cellist of Sarajevo
“Listen. Never, ever, regret or apologise for believing that when one man or one woman decides to risk addressing the world with truth, the world may stop what it is doing and hear. There is too much evidence to the contrary. When we cease believing this, the music will surely stop. The myth of the impossible dream is more powerful than all the facts of history.”
- Robert Fulgham
This weekend found me “dialoguing” via comment entries on jazz legend Wynton Marsalis’ official website. That dialogue led to my discovery of Wynton’s new book, Moving to Higher Ground: How Jazz Can Change Your Life…which I will own as soon as Amazon.com can leap into action.
The discovery of this important book on the Power(ful Peace) of music and musicians next led to my re-discovery of an incredible story I’d forgotten for years…the Cellist of Sarajevo. Below, with full credit to the author at LifePositive.com, is a moving, stunning, scorching account of Powerful Peace in action. If you don’t mist up during this reading, you should probably get your tear ducts examined.
The Cellist of Sarajevo
by Swati Chopra
What do we do when faced with unspeakable horror?
Play music is what a resident of Sarajevo, capital of Bosnia, did, even as bombs rained around him. His is a story of courage and grace in difficult times
A musician walks on stage to the sound of deafening applause. He is in his coattails, dressed in black. He bows, sits down on a concert chair and takes an instrument in his hands. Let’s say it’s an old cello the colour of burgundy. A few quiet moments as he prepares himself. And then, the music flows.
This is a routine every Western classical musician is familiar with. As was Vedran Smailovic, principal cellist of the Sarajevo Opera, when he decided to perform it in the middle of the war zone that his neighbourhood had become. The year was 1992. The former Yugoslavia had erupted in ethnic strife and beautiful Sarajevo, with its rich theatre and art traditions, had transformed into Europe’s “capital of hell”.
At 4 pm on May 27, as a long queue waited patiently for bread in front of one of the last functional bakeries in the city, a mortar shell dropped in the middle of it, killing 22 people instantly. Smailovic looked out of his window to find flesh, blood, bone, and rubble splattered over the area. It was the moment he knew he had had enough.
Smailovic was 37 at the time, widely recognised as an exceptionally talented cello player. Till 1992, he had been occupied with his involvements in the Sarajevo Opera, the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra, the Symphony Orchestra RTV Sarajevo, and the National Theatre of Sarajevo, as well as playing the festival circuit and working in recording studios.
Looking back on that period, Smailovic describes himself and his associates as being “totally naïve”. So great was their confidence in their unity and plurality, he says, that even when they were watching what was happening in other parts of Yugoslavia, they felt absolutely certain that similar destruction could never happen in Sarajevo, that it would be impossible to destroy such strong unity. That dream was shattered by 1992.
Smailovic felt enraged by what was happening around him and powerless to do anything about it. He was neither a politician nor a soldier, just a musician. How could he do anything about the war? Did that mean he would just stand by and watch people die, fearing all the while for his own life? In the long, dark night that followed the bread-queue massacre, Smailovic thought long and deep. With the dawn of a new day, he had made up his mind that he would do something, and that something would be what he knew best – make music.
So every evening after that, at 4 pm, Smailovic would walk to the middle of the street, where the massacre had occurred. He would be dressed formally, as for a performance. There he would sit, on a battered camp stool placed in the crater made by the shell, his cello in his hand, playing music. All around him, mortar shells and bullets would fly. Yet he would play on regardless, perhaps substituting the war noise with applause in his mind.
For 22 days, one each for the people killed, Smailovic played in the same spot. He played to ruined homes, smouldering fires, scared people hiding in basements. He played for human dignity that is the first casualty in war. Ultimately, he played for life, for peace, and for the possibility of hope that exists even in the darkest hour. Asked by a journalist whether he was not crazy doing what he was doing, Smailovic replied: “You ask me am I crazy for playing the cello, why do you not ask if they are not crazy for shelling Sarajevo?”
Smailovic continued to play his music of hope until December 1993, in graveyards and bombsites. He had decided to “daily offer a musical prayer for peace”, he said. As his story began to filter into the press, he became a symbol for peace in Bosnia. An English composer, David Wilde, was so moved by the story that he wrote a composition for unaccompanied cello, simply called ‘The Cellist of Sarajevo’, into which he poured his own feelings of outrage, love, and brotherhood with Vedran Smailovic.
Celebrated cellist Yo Yo Ma played this piece at the International Cello Festival in Manchester, England, in 1994. Pianist Paul Sullivan, who was present, describes it thus: “Quietly, almost imperceptibly, the music began, stealing out into the hushed hall and creating a shadowy, empty universe, ominous with the presence of death, haunting in its echoes. Slowly it built, growing relentlessly into an agonised, screaming, slashing furore, gripping us all, before subsiding at last into a hollow death rattle, and finally, back to the silence from which it had begun.
“When he had finished, Yo Yo Ma remained bent over his cello. His bow still rested on the strings. No one in the hall moved, not a sound was made for a long, long time. It was as though we had just witnessed that horrifying massacre ourselves. Finally still in silence, Yo Yo slowly straightened in his chair, looked out across the audience, and stretched out his hand toward us. All eyes followed as he beckoned someone to come to the stage, and an indescribable electric shock swept over us as we realised who it was: Vedran Smailovic – the cellist of Sarajevo himself! He rose from his seat and walked down the aisle as Yo Yo came off the stage and headed up the aisle to meet him. With arms flung wide, they met each other in a passionate embrace just inches from my seat.
“The drama was unbelievable, as everyone in the hall leaped to his or her feet in a chaotic emotional frenzy: clapping, weeping, shouting, embracing, and cheering. It was deafening, overwhelming, a tidal wave of emotion. And in the centre of it stood these two men, still hugging, both crying freely. Yo Yo Ma, the suave, elegant prince of classical music worldwide, flawless in appearance and performance. And Vedran Smailovic, who had just escaped from Sarajevo, dressed in a stained and tattered leather motorcycle suit with fringe on the arms. His wild long hair and huge moustache framed a face that looked old beyond his years, creased with pain and soaked with so many tears.”
In the years since his heroic anti-war statement, Smailovic has relocated to Belfast, Ireland, where he performs, composes, conducts, and produces music locally and internationally. But the message of this story is greater than the man who made it. As American philosopher Robert Fulghum says in his book Maybe (Maybe Not): Second Thoughts From a Secret Life: “Listen. Never, ever, regret or apologise for believing that when one man or one woman decides to risk addressing the world with truth, the world may stop what it is doing and hear. There is too much evidence to the contrary. When we cease believing this, the music will surely stop. The myth of the impossible dream is more powerful than all the facts of history. In my imagination, I lay flowers at the statue memorialising Vedran Smailovic – a monument that has not yet been built, but may be.”
Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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48. I’m Sorry for What We’ve Done to Ourselves
After a particularly valuable engagement with a local Coalition leader here in Baghdad today, I set out for a beautiful, cool-sunny afternoon stroll back to my office at the palace. Walking alongside a shimmering lake, I felt drawn to stop by the mosque I’d noticed en route.
According to custom – and military law – I did not enter the facility (I’ve been accompanied into several others by Muslim friends), but I did poke my nose in around the outside. My buoyant mood was transformed into an anchor.
I’ve always wandered, and I’m always saddened to discover abandoned houses of worship in my wanderings. They represent centers of community and spirituality that simply aren’t doing their jobs any more. Inevitably, they represent a place in which crime, poverty, or in this case, war, have overcome the local population’s ability to satisfy its need to congregate.
Each of these places has seen its former occupants of self-sacrifice, humility and generosity replaced by dust and bird droppings. Most, of course, are not physically scarred by the wounds of war as this is. I can’t know which “side” is responsible for slamming high caliber rounds into one wall of this building and shattering out some of the carefully crafted windows. Probably both sides. (In Afghanistan, entire towns have been leveled by heavy weapons; 95% of that ordnance was fired by Afghans of one group or another. Despite the physical shattering of these communities, the people still live there…simply because that’s where they live.)
I’m reminded that the loss is not limited to this formerly-beautiful site, or this type of damage. Isolated American soldiers displaying very poor judgment have shot bullets through the Qur’an, abused the Qur’an in other ways, and made deliberately antagonistic comments about Islam’s Prophet Mohammed.
The loss is not limited to this faith. Men calling themselves Muslims have pointedly massacred Christian and Jewish men, women, and children. They’ve done the same to the “other” kind of Muslim (Sunni on Shi’a and vice-versa). They’ve even brutally raped women of their own “kind” of Muslim in the name of righteous discipline.
The loss is not limited to faith on faith. Some individuals take great pleasure in attacking a religion not to their liking, such as the late Robert Mapplethorpe’s photo of the crucifix in a glass of urine, compassionately titled Piss Christ. (No, I won’t show that particular piece of “art” in this forum. You’ll have to Google it yourself.)
As you may have deduced by now, the point of this piece is that disrespect of others’ personal beliefs is a harmful thing – ultimately, even to the disrespecter. Is it not possible for us to simply heed the famously common-sensical words; “People, I just want to say, you know, can we all get along?”
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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47. A Powerful, Peaceful Holiday Poem
My friend sent me this poem yesterday, and I delayed publishing it until I could do it during my favorite month of the year, December. December brings Christmas, which is my absolute favorite time of the year.
I know, however, that for various reasons many people don’t share that feeling. One may have lost a loved one at Christmas, as I did at Thanksgiving. Many don’t celebrate Christmas because it’s not relevant to their faith. Still others just have a rough time during the holidays.
Whatever your particular circumstances, Powerful Peace exists on a higher plane than our personal moments of happy and sad, intent on the basic human goodness that transcends our oh-so-human peculiarities. Whatever your background, I hope this goodness as illustrated by this beautiful rhyme will comfort you and give you pause:
A Different Christmas Poem
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed ’round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, with her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered - perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
“What are you doing?” I asked without fear,
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be home on a cold Christmas Eve!”
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts…
…To the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
Then he sighed, and he said, “It’s really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night.
It’s my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
“None had to ask or to beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at Pearl on a day in December,”
Then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas Gram always remembers.
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘Nam,
And now it’s my turn, and so, here I am.
“I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.”
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue… an American flag.
“I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
“I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother,
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.
“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.”
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled
Is payment enough, and with that we’ll trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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45. Introducing “You Oughta Know”
There are many very, very important stories being told around the world. I began writing the TWIT series in Powerful Peace just this week to share some of what outside nations don’t see on the ground here in Iraq amid all the ratings-bait of media casualty counts.
Tonight I launch another effort with much the same aim. You Oughta Know is a weekly-changing link at the top of the lists to the right, dedicated to communicating realities that command the attention of believers in Powerful Peace.
This first story, Rape as a Weapon of War, is extremely troubling. It may be too graphic for some readers, so please stop where you need to.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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44. Hope – It Screams
I spoke today with an Iraqi Army General on the subject of our way ahead in Iraq. Like many of his peers, he has invaluable insight on problems and solutions regarding the ongoing struggle for Iraq. Like many of his peers, his recommendations (the other-than-combat efforts we will need for a long-term “win”) sometimes compete with more immediate Coalition needs for force protection and combat readiness.
Hope in Iraq
Hope, we concluded, is the most urgent commodity we can provide to the men and women of this ancient, noble and profoundly historic land. There are many other essential ingredients; most of them are merely steps along the path to hope.
Hope screams to be heard. Hope screams, desperately, to be felt.
It’s just at the edge of their hearing, for some of these. Hope is screaming its fool head off, just – just barely – out of reach from hundreds of thousands of decent people who can’t take their children to the market with them.
It’s just beyond the hearing of people without enough power, work, or water that won’t make them sick.
I can hear hope. In fact, I can’t hear anything else. It’s inevitable, now. I sense hope itself trembling in the unlimited potential of this moment. Hope knows its release is just around the corner. Any day, any moment, and hope will burst forth across this torn landscape like a storm. Those who fought for stability will fight ten times harder, in ten thousand little ways. But right now, before this great release, it’s so hard for many residents of Iraq to know hope.
Unemployed men with small children dying of illness and malnutrition fear to step forward to accept work with the Coalition, knowing that cruel, organized thugs may torture and kill a father who seeks to provide for his family in this way. Losing the only breadwinner jeopardizes the wife and other children in homes from which these fathers are too frequently lost.
My friend Jamal lost his family home, lifelong friends, and fiancee when he was identified as an interpreter. He very nearly lost much more.
On the other hand, there simply is not a great deal of work available with Coalition forces even for the willing, since positions for locals are competitive and jealously guarded.
In a society so wracked with danger and fear, much of the work from commerce and production is likewise only a memory. There is very little demand for non-essentials; when a citizen ventures to the market downtown even for necessities he knows he takes his life in his hands. There may be a car bomb rolling up to any part of any bazaar at any moment.
The citizens of Iraq are in desperate need of hope in order for them to see any purpose in striving and risking for change. When hope dies, initiative follows. Why bother?
In contrast to this dangerous apathy, I recently published an extracted article on the Baghdad Zoo now being open, safe, and enjoyed. (See A Walk in the Park). When a couple can take their little ones to such a pleasant and ordinary place, this glimmer called hope begins to take root. They taste freedom from insecurity – and like it. They begin to ponder the instability and terrors of the family neighborhood, and find a fresh energy to reclaim this rightful territory for the good of all.
They begin to say…”Oh, hell, no! Anything is better than this.”
The energy of hope can produce startling results. In a book entitled Let’s Roll, we read the story of true heroes, doomed passengers on a hijacked plane. They had some certainty that something very bad was going to happen with their plane. They realized that there might not be anything they could do about it…but they hoped they could. They hoped they could, and they acted.
They saw no gain in hiding in the herd and praying not to be the next one culled. They acted in the hope of stopping terrorists with their own hands. They succeeded. With this hope and their own hands, they saved hundreds or thousands of other innocent lives. They died, yes – they died because fighting to defend involves risk, and some pay the price for the rest.
Hope is something that can be given. It can’t be forced, because a person can not be “convinced” of something against his will. Hope can be inspired by example, as when the United States of America still inspires the hope of a better life for hundreds of millions who live in tragic poverty. Hope can be revealed in the genuine, consistent effort of outreach from those who have to those who have not.
Hope sometimes stays out of reach for those without hope, until someone who holds it…offers it. In some cases, it must be given from one group of people to another. Or, from one group of nations to another. When we grasp hope firmly in our hands, we perceive the extraordinary future we can create.
This isn’t a war for Americans to bring peace, or for “the West” to establish democracy, or for any other reason than simply this: this war in Iraq, however it may have started, is a war for the Iraqi people to experience hope, say “Let’s Roll”, and take back their land for peace and safety.
Hope screams to be known. With hope, anything is possible.
Without it, nothing is.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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42. My Blood Is In This Flag
Literally.
As I see the Stars and Stripes cascading majestically from the highest railings here in Baghdad this week, I am reminded that my own blood marks the seam, four stories above.
During one of my visits to the Baghdad Coalition Headquarters a few months back, I noticed a group of soldiers struggling to hold up the palace’s massive, forty-foot-long U.S. flag as they prepared it for hanging.
I jumped in to keep my little piece of our treasured national symbol from touching the floor. We needed to cut old zip-ties out of the grommets, so I opened my knife and set to work on the heavy plastic fasteners.
Distracted by the complex exercise of cutting while lifting, I nicked one of my fingers. It was an insignificant boo-boo, and I didn’t think much of it at the time. With some embarrassment, I later noticed that a spot of my blood had soaked into the edge of that flag, staining the white, red.
It wasn’t until hours afterward, as I stood staring in awe at this towering display, that the greater impact of the imagery of blood in the flag struck home.
Blood Marks Old Glory
Rewind a few years, and you’ll see me as a younger, pre-retirement Navy SEAL training at one of our desert locations. My platoon was completing a particularly unimpressive series of “Immediate Action Drills” (in a nutshell: shooting and running and dropping down and shooting again).
The cadre bellowed at us to get more aggressive with every iteration, and I took that seriously – to the point of inadvertently smashing my rifle scope against the corner of my mouth on one particularly enthusiastic “drop” to continue firing.
When our lackluster performance ended, the hardcore old frogman in charge of our training said he had never seen such a disgusting spectacle in all his years as a commando. (We take solace in the knowledge that combat critique is often exaggerated to drive a point home.) After he finally got done telling us what a bunch of [blank]-ing [blankety-blank-blanks] we were, he took a long, ragged breath and we thought he was spent.
He wasn’t. Glaring menacingly around our sheepish group, he suddenly locked eyes with me and said, “You. You’re bleeding…I like that.”
And we were redeemed.
I’ll let the reader unfold some of the profound layers of meaning at this concept of redemption through blood.
Despite such boo-boos, all of the accumulated dents and scrapes I acquired during my career don’t add up to one serious injury as suffered by hundreds of thousands over hundreds of years of American life; I can still count the same number of fingers and limbs as when I got born about four decades back.
What is most desperately important to remember on Veterans Day is that our precious flag is soaked in the blood of every wounded and slain warrior who ever served America and freedom. If not for the blood of heroes, this flag would be nothing more than the tattered and molding scraps of a great experiment which had failed to rise and inspire the world.
Our grand story has been and continues to be paid for, as they say, in blood and treasure. While those who have the treasure have often found it unnecessary to also contribute blood, we have awesome exceptions. Our legendary veterans, George Washington and his comrades, are among this noble crowd. These men would have suffered the horror of a traitor’s execution if captured. Many did. They willingly risked all for this cause so much greater than themselves.
Raising the Flag
Did you know this? Washington said, “The fate of unborn millions will now depend on God, on the courage and conduct of this army.” Unborn millions! How could any ordinary man have the vision in the first, perilous birth pangs of a nation, to foresee how much would become of this fragile dream if only they risked and paid their all???
Let us remember our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters who truly paid the costs of freedom and an example for the world. Let us especially hold ourselves accountable to those future generations within and without our borders who may one day look back and say – of us – “But for their sacrifices, we would not know liberty.”
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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41. Did You Understand the Barack Obama Piece?
Barack Obama
It’s very important to the grasp of Powerful Peace that I clear this up. I don’t take any pleasure in one side humiliating the other; quite the opposite. I know being centrist still means being in the minority in the US, but it’s my belief that if I “lean right” or “lean left” according to political inclinations, I’ll put myself in some danger of falling down. In fact, I stand straight up in the middle, and measure each issue on its merit, not basing my opinions on what some affiliation tells me I should think and decide.
Please let me know if you share this vision. Sometimes this position of listening to all sides, and respecting all persons for the inherent value of their point of view, seems pretty lonely.
Article #39 is an observation on the profound nature of the world’s opinion of us, and our opinion of ourselves, as it relates to the election of this unique individual. Please do review it in this context: Barack Obama: 9/12 and 11/5.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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39. Barack Obama – September 12th and November 5th
Days of National Transformation
Wherever you fell on the political spectrum when the final results were in, I would like to point out some details that have not yet been discussed. I would like to address the profound significance of this day, November 5th, 2008.
I’m writing this piece from my station in Iraq. On September 11th, 2001, I was working as a SEAL in another Middle Eastern country with some of my teammates. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, we US SEALs and our class of local national SEALs endured the rare privilege of watching the events of 9/11 unfold live while half a world away.
It was evening, there. One of our number called out to the barracks that a plane had hit a Tower. We Americans and Arabs gathered in the TV lounge and sat silently for three hours as the unimaginable transpired.
The next morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, we cancelled all training and began readying ourselves for the inevitable war to come. I told a friend, “The world will never be the same.”
What I meant by this is that, as with the designations of B.C. and A.D. (or Before Current Era and Current Era, in some calendar systems), history would now be eternally fractured into pre-9/11 and post-9/11. These terms have in fact become part of today’s vernacular. That date can reasonably be likened to a national loss of innocence.
Now consider these facts that burst forth on November 5th, 2008:
The Black segment of the United States has been uplifted in a concrete way which theories and declarations of equality could never fully communicate. This will open the eyes of every citizen that American diversity is real. It is finally true that each child can grow up to become the President of the United States of America.
Barack Obama is not Black
Simultaneously, the nation must realize that Barack Obama is not Black…not Black, that is, unless we are equally willing to label him “White”. After all, what is it that makes him Black? If it’s being born of a Black parent, then is he somehow less White in also being the son of a White parent?
(By the way, this isn’t political bandwagonning. I won’t tell you which way I voted. I’m describing our circumstances objectively.)
President-elect Obama is Black and White. Conveniently, so is America…and we are so much more.
America is also Native American, (which group, by the way, we honor in the month of November), we’re Hispanic, we’re Asian, we’re Polynesian, we’re Mediterranean, and still more. In other words, Barack Obama’s victory is not merely a win for Blacks. As he is the physical embodiment of the racial extremes of America, so his selection is a vote in favor of the entire spectrum of race in America. His victory is a win for Blacks and for Whites. It’s a win for every race between these extremes.
The nation, and the world, must also realize that he is not American…not American, that is, unless we are equally willing to name him a global citizen. If an American mother and a Kenyan father produce a child, does either side have the stronger claim to its native son?
In no way is this an insinuation that Barack Obama is not “American enough” to lead our nation. Rather, it’s an assertion that he is inherently and invaluably aware of the world beyond our borders. Our world is shrinking by the day. Great Walls and Iron Curtains are pitiful artifacts of a sadly frightened past in which nations looked at one another like suspicious townsfolk in a cowboy movie: “You ain’t from around here, is you, stranger?”
While on the subject of “(fill-in-the-blank) enough”, I want to point out that Jesse Jackson once apparently expressed that Barack Obama wasn’t “Black enough” to run and win as the Black candidate for President. Today I was moved to see Jesse Jackson weeping with joy over the election.
I say again: the world will never be the same.
A Change in America means a Change in the World
The United States is the single, most powerful people group on the planet. We have demonstrated the greatest willingness to extend ourselves out into the world to influence change – according to our best judgment. In helpful and not-so-helpful ways, we have proven over and again that we, as one entity, can move the globe.
That globe has in recent decades become less enamored of our ability and decisions to act or not act. Our face is mirrored in worldwide polls; the numbers do not paint a pretty picture.
We are perceived as a self-absorbed superpower. The image is that while our intentions may in fact be good, our values are not always demonstrated by our actions. We can swear to never tolerate genocide, then show that the slaughtering of families in Darfur doesn’t quite meet the threshold for meaningful intervention.
While the tapestry of our nation has been a multi-colored fabric since the first day, our executive has never been. This cannot go unnoticed by global neighbors. The proud label of Melting Pot must have appeared insincere as long as only the white wax floated to the top.
Raise your head high, America. If you voted for Barack Obama or against him, you participated in the selection of this living symbol of the whole greatness that is America. You were a vital part of the struggle that proves to a skeptical world that we love our country; we embrace the democratic process in choosing our leader, together; ultimately, we demonstrated that we treasure this grand, glorious, motley rabble of individuals…more than our individual selves. We truly value the diversity that is America – and the world.
I usually don’t say much to describe myself, beyond my status as a retired SEAL and global security professional. In case you’re interested, I’m White. Or rather, I should say, I’m a White American. Or rather, I should say…I’m a proud American. I’m proud that my country has so powerfully seized its own American-ness.
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Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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