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.
28. The World in Iraq
[Adapted from my monthly hardcopy newspaper column, For Goodness' Sake, in Front Porch magazine]
Armed Turkish soldiers encircled me, the solitary American. They were moving closer, speaking in that mysterious language. I was only too aware that I had no weapon besides my own two hands. Suddenly, everyone paused as we heard the ferocious sounds of a running machine gun battle closer in toward Baghdad. That fight wasn’t far from my hooch, a half mile away….
Armed Turkish Soldier
This incident occurred a couple of months ago. It’s all true, but today I’m delighted to report that I am neither dead nor detained. I’m comfortably tucked in with a coffee and a keyboard, in fact. Please indulge me as I elaborate:
One of the best parts of moving around Iraq now is the opportunity to meet up with the numerous international forces comprising the Coalition. Over my 42 years I’ve lived in many of their countries (thirty-plus, at last count), exploring those cultures with the curiosity and enthusiasm of a small child.
In the early 1990’s, my stay in Turkey lasted a full year. (This was coincident with the collapse of the Soviet Union, but no, I won’t take credit for that one.)
I would drink chai in the tea gardens with my best friend Hayri. We spoke for hours about his father the Muslim cleric, the qualities of carpets in Hayri’s rug shop, and how horribly I had offended nearby little old ladies with my inadvertent mispronunciations. (Early on, Hayri had to hustle me off to different tea gardens frequently to escape the scorching glares of victims of my linguistic drive-bys.)
Years later I learned that Hayri had, like me, made his way into the military as a commando. He led a squad in southeastern Turkey against Kurdish fighters of the PKK, an organization that Turkey identified as terrorist. It’s funny how a preacher’s humble son from a small town would end up in that business.
It’s funny how people from across the human spectrum can come to be involved in violence against strangers. Our natural instincts to protect our “own” against dangerous “others” are expanded to include institutional us-vs.-them purposes.
Spetsnaz Commando Jumping, Throwing Hatchet
I once had hot dogs and beer on my patio with the head of Spetsnaz (Russia’s version of our Special Forces). We discussed how pleasant it was to not be enemies for the time being. We also discussed how, in the unpleasant case of international relations “going south” again, should we find ourselves face-to-face on a hillcrest…only the quicker would walk away.
Duty is like that.
Fast forward to this month and the Turks surrounding me. These Liaison Officers were friends of mine, at a “Hail and Farewell” party they were hosting for a change of staff. They had invited me and a variety of international colleagues; I enjoyed speaking Russian with the Ukrainian and Georgian, Turkish with the Azerbaijani and our hosts, some Arabic with the Jordanian, and English with the rest. I was unarmed, because at the time I was only working in the same palace as General Petraeus.
(This was in two different offices of the palace, you understand. Different floors, actually.)
It’s also true that, while these Turks surrounded me, we paused to listen to a running machine gun fight a half mile away…outside the base wall, but just barely. While our gathering represented the harmony possible among a dozen unlike nations, men were savagely killing each other within earshot. While the rage continued on those ancient streets, “micro-globalization” in one tiny trailer in Baghdad showed a flicker of hope for the future of this race.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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23. 9/11/01 (Thank You, Mr. bin Laden)
Achilles died.
We’ll get back to that in a moment.
A few years ago, while I was still in uniform, I had what is called a “bad landing”. That’s what happens when a SEAL gets into an airplane just fine and jumps out of it just fine, but then experiences a less-than-optimal reunion with the earth.
The surgeon sliced into my throat and shoved my trachea, esophagus and artery out of the way so he could dig a damaged disk out of my spine. Earlier in the operation, he had carved a piece of bone off my left femur to fashion a disk-shaped chunk. This was now inserted as a replacement in my spine. He capped it all off by screwing a titanium plate into the vertebrae above and below the new disk, then zipped up my throat.
When the entire production was finally healed, it was exactly as the surgeon had promised: the neck was not only good as new, but stronger than before. With those two vertebrae fused into one, there is a negligible reduction of flexibility and a reinforced structure. I could take the same fall better now than with my original neck.
Achilles died.
Again, we’ll get back to that in a moment.
Osama bin Laden is no Superman. His image may now be more familiar to us than those of many of our greatest presidents. No matter. He is a living myth, blown up by the real affection of a handful of admirers and an unreal mystique to millions who are awed by the attacks accomplished in his name.
Osama bin Laden gets diarrhea. He has uncomfortable and embarrassing gassy moments, and he sometimes gets a little booger on the outside of his nostril. How do I know this? Because he’s human. When I teach “thinking like the terrorist”, I urge listeners to put our adversaries in perspective. To esteem him unrealistically is to self-inflict intimidation. It’s to give weight and energy to his cause, to the detriment of our own. They’re only guys, guys.
Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda inadvertently acted as a surgeon on the spine of the world. They cut into our throat in the hopes of finding the jugular to kill the patient.
They failed.
Before I “broke my neck a little bit”, my neck was natural and average. After the surgery I was sore for some months of healing. In the end, my spine was technically (but not noticeably) less flexible – and much better able to survive trauma similar to what had caused the original damage.
After the “operation” of 9/11, the patient (the world) was sore for a few months of healing. The patient was uncertain about the future and the prognosis for recovery. To the unacknowledged disappointment of the surviving attackers and their McQaeda franchises worldwide, the end result is the same. The attacks did not kill the patient. This operation steeled a spine.
Achilles is known for having been a great Greek warrior, invulnerable except for a small spot on his heel. During the replayed footage of today’s memorials, I heard one commentator’s original remark from that day that terrorists had found the Achilles’ heel of America. This was an inaccurate analogy.
Achilles died.
America and the world, however, are stronger than ever before.
Thank you, Mr. bin Laden.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
22. Marching into the Inferno
I’d never seen that before. Seven years after September 11th, amid all of the news coverage and local memorial services, I watched some footage today that showed dozens of firefighters who raced from nearby towns and nearby states to clamber out of their trucks in full protective suits some blocks from the disaster site of the Towers.
They clambered out of their trucks and learned that one tower had already collapsed, and that the other was likely to follow. Then they turned as one, without hesitation, and marched into the Gates of Hell to save innocent lives.
My God….
Thank you.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
19. Powerful Peace is Born
For the first two months of Powerful Peace, there was a “Page” open at the top of the our Home page, used to track the first thousand hits on P2 (which concluded only hours before the one-month mark).
I need to open that Page slot for Read, View and Click, but I don’t want to discard this nostalgic log of the birth and rapid growth of P2. So, for the reader’s enjoyment of a tentative startup that turned into a successful forum, we have imported and present this post from the first thirty days of Powerful Peace – the Blog:
[August 15, 2008]
That was a fine ride. In under one month, we raced up to 1,000 visiting clicks into Powerful Peace with just hours to spare. Now P2 can ride along growing naturally, if it’s meant to grow at all. I will write, and welcome Comments and emails, and hope that all of this makes some real difference.
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[August 13, 2008]
1,000 “hits” for Powerful Peace is only hours away.
If you’re reading this in the United States at the same time I post it, you’re settling into a peaceful night of security and (I pray) well-being. It’s 10:00pm on the evening of August 13th. You’ll wake up safe and sound and ready to go to work, or see some friends, and maybe swing by your choice of stores to pick something up.
Outside my base in Iraq, thousands of fathers, mothers and children will wake up consciously grateful they weren’t mutilated by a bomb or abducted and decapitated.
In the Palestinian region, thousands on both sides of the line will wake up trapped in a time warp of seemingly unbreakable, incomprehensible resentment and cravings for revenge…many of them will know they should try something different.
Many of them, like many of the rest of us, will feel confused and uncertain as to how to be the bigger person and begin to work at reconciliation while we’re personally snarled in a conflict.
Millions in South Asia and Africa will wake up hungry, again; and hopeless…again.
When everyone wakes up, Powerful Peace will be one month old.
Things will change for the better for some, in time.
I’m going to believe it’s possible to hurry that along.
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[August 12, 2008]
Congratulations! We’re at 900 exactly! I glanced away and nearly fifty hits bounced in!
This makes it official – by the end of August 14 in two days, the one-month anniversary of Powerful Peace, we need to make ONE THOUSAND HITS.
Why?
Well…because it’s a cool number, I suppose.
Please pass the word far and wide about P2.
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[August 10, 2008; Zero-Dark-Thirty]
We’re four days from the one-month anniversary of the founding of Powerful Peace. The ticker has passed 800. 65% of the growth so far…occurred in the last six days.
It feels as though a wave is building. Thank you for all your attention, writing emails, writing comments, and forwarding the site to friends, family, and colleagues. I would ask that you keep the forwarding going strong; P2 is taking on a life of its own.
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[August 8, 2008]
As I write, the clicker-ticker hovers right around Seven Hundred and Fifty hits. That’s three quarters of a thousand, and most of it took place in only the last few days. WordPress, just so you know, will not count any clicks that would happen when I come into the pages to post. (Okay, it had occurred to me.) I’m afraid the site’s too smart.
This is all you.
Who’s for a thousand?
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[August 7, 2008]
Okay, you’ve done it again…tonight we’re about to shoot through 700.
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[August 5, 2008]
Holy mackerel.
Yesterday’s entry on quick growth (below) referenced 330 hits since inception. Tonight, only twenty-four hours later – it’s 530.
Something wild and wonderful happened over this past day. I don’t know what it was.
Keep it up.
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[August 4, 2008]
Thanks to all of you, this site has reached 330 “hits” in just over two weeks!
Please, keep the clicks, Comments, and Email coming.
We’ll reach escape velocity together!
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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