Obama's letting Bush team decide when to end wars

Daryl is a member of the Clarence Kailin Chapter of Veterans for Peace

Obama's letting Bush team decide when to end wars
The Capital Times
6/06/2009 7:01 am

Dear Editor: Perpetual war.It seems there was a bunch of neo-cons in the Bush bunch that believed we should have this -- I suppose for the war profits that would go to their friends. Americans rose up to definitively reject the present wars, let alone an infinite series of successors, by electing Barack Obama president-- who as a candidate promised to get us out by 2010 at the latest.

But President Obama retained a lot of the Bush team: the secretary of defense and all the generals leading the wars, and he appointed a hawkish secretary of state. It appears the hawkish advisers have persuaded him to at least let them squawk about 10-year wars, and to expand the Afghan war into Pakistan and put 20,000 more troops there. As someone who strongly supported Mr. Obama, I am very distressed at the direction in which he seems to be going. I would urge him to force Gen. George Casey to disown his remarks about a 10-year war in Iraq or fire him if he will not. He should also consider replacing any other general who will not support his policies.

Lastly, I would strongly urge him to state publicly and unequivocally that he intends to remove all troops and bases from the Middle East, Afghanistan and Pakistan as soon as possible.

Daryl Sherman, Madison

Another story 21- by David Giffey

Each year Memorial Day brings forth speeches, editorials, essays, poems, songs, and other attempts by survivors and non-participants to comprehend and justify war. The libraries of war songs and stories grow over time in inverse proportion to our collective memory of the harsh realities of death, destruction, and disruption that are the essence of war.

Fading memories seem unable to bear what really happened.

Was that true for my grandfather? I can only speculate, born 15 years, as I was, after grandpa died in 1926.

His first name was Herman. Information about him is limited but compelling, as collected by my brother, our family’s faithful historian.

Grandpa’s obituary, published under the headline “Veteran is Buried Tues.,” tells many stories. He died in 1926 at a son’s house in the Town of Springvale, Fond du Lac County, five weeks after suffering a stroke on his way home from the national Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) convention. He was 77.

What was the GAR? Grandpa’s obituary didn’t describe the GAR, a very political fraternal organization of veterans of the Union Army who served in the Civil War. The GAR, similar to mainstream veterans’ groups today, was so influential after its founding in 1866, one year after the Civil War ended, that no Republican was nominated to the presidency without GAR endorsement until 1908.

The obituary continues: “The deceased was born in a log cabin in Oct. 22, 1849 near West Bend.” Wait a minute! If he was born in 1849, how could he have been a Union soldier?

In the next paragraph we learn: “Mr. Giffey’s service in the war was twice refused because of his youth. The first time he enlisted he got to Milwaukee and the second time he was returned from St. Louis. Finally, at the age of 14, he was accepted as a drummer boy. He celebrated his 15th birthday at Appomattox Courthouse (Virginia), where he was on duty. He was a member of Co. I, 17th Wisconsin Volunteers. He participated in Sherman’s march to the sea, and was imprisoned in the Libby prison (Richmond, Virginia) for two months. He was wounded in the leg and captured at the battle of Wilcox Ridge. This wound caused him to limp the rest of his life, and he carried a cane during his last years.”

My brother’s research indicates that our great-grandmother signed a consent form stipulating that her son was 17 years old when, in fact, he wasn’t even 15. She probably received $200 or $300 as a “substitute fee” paid by a conscripted person prosperous enough to pay the fee and avoid military service. That fee could be compared to deferments enjoyed by college students during the Vietnam War. Wealth and military service have long been incompatible.

What could motivate a teenager to so eagerly march off to probable death? Did Herman see himself as freeing the slaves? I doubt it. Probably, as my brother suggested, he was tired of milking cows and the Union army needed bodies.

One hundred years after my grandfather was discharged from service, I was drafted and sent to Vietnam. In the 43 years since I returned from that war, I’ve puzzled over my motives as well. A burning desire to sacrifice myself in order to “keep America free” never entered my thoughts. America wasn’t endangered, as we have learned, by that civil war in Southeast Asia. I went to war under orders. The fact that my name isn’t among the 1.3 million Americans killed outright in wars since 1775 is a matter of pure luck. So, while my heart is emptied at Memorial Day each year at the thought of loved ones grieving for their lost soldiers, I can’t restrain myself from asking: Why war?

With that question in mind, we embarked on another walk last Saturday along part of Highway 14. It was the 140th time since the beginning of the current war in Iraq six years ago that I’ve walked along the road carrying a sign saying “Peace.” The day was pleasant, calm and cloudless. Most people passing by ignored us. A few waved and gave us the peace sign. Fewer still were hostile and gave us half of the peace sign.

Two days later during Memorial Day programs in two River Valley schools I listened to the solemn recitation of hundreds of names of local veterans now dead. The roll calls were long and growing longer.

I’ve heard the term “Nobody wants war” while observing citizens near and far embrace war after war. And I’ve also observed, with wonder, how the word “peace” elicits angry responses. If I could talk to my grandfather, I’d tell him that I think war isn’t inevitable, that peace is attainable and not just another story.

David Giffey is the editor of Long Shadows: Veterans’ Paths to Peace.

A tidal wave of consequences from war

Wisconsin State Journal

SAT., MAY 23, 2009 - 12:56 PM

By FRANCES WIEDENHOEFT

It recently occurred to me -- abruptly -- that it is 2009.

I am home again, and America has been at war in Iraq for six years.

America has been in Afghanistan for eight years to help stabilize the country and oust the terrorists who are becoming more obscure with each passing week.

I have been home from Iraq for a year, but this return has been a gradual one. The distraction of the previous year left me feeling weak and unavailable to those I love.

One of many tools I have been using to help clear my mind of the debris of my involvement in six years of war is a specific type of therapy at the Veterans Administration mental health clinic. The therapy is useful and helping me. But initially, I was quite skeptical.

The underlying principal of the therapy, as I understand it, is to confront and resolve our internal moral conflicts related to the war. It was difficult for me to grasp how this would work, because I believe that the fundamental nature of war is a moral conflict.

Our American wars, cynics aside, have been fought at least in principle to defend or save a group of people, except that to save this group of people we need to kill another group of people.

To those of us down on the ground, the picture becomes muddled, and our hearts and souls are the casualties. It doesn't surprise me that so many soldiers are committing suicide. It is a testament to the strength of our soldiers and their families that more are not doing so.

The fundamental moral conflict of war to each individual involved is that killing is meant to be disturbing, horrifying to the human soul. Killing the enemy can be intellectually justified, but war is not discreet, and we witness daily, hourly, the civilian deaths, women, children, elders.

Everyone intimately involved in the process, killing, saving lives, is wounded in ways that do not heal. This is the essence of the human cost of war on our soldiers. These moral conflicts are irresolvable, and not easy to make peace with.

So what do we, as a nation, do?

We should take the instrument of war from our national tool bag only as an absolute last resort, after all other measures have been exhausted, and with brutal appraisal of the human cost, including our own soldiers' psyches.

Fortunately, I have the enduring support of family and community, and the benefit of friendship with older veterans of previous conflicts who have generously shared their experience and shown by example that we can learn to live with our ghosts and demons, and have a full life.

We return and try to pass on this tiny bit of hard-earned truth, that once we resort to war we have unleashed a tidal wave of consequences, most unintended, with damage that can't be undone.

We, the veterans, can be a voice, supported by experience, adamantly maintaining the use of war only as a last resort, and not as the primary means to carry out national policy.

(In memory of Sid Podell)

Frances Wiedenhoeft is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Army Reserve. She served in Desert Storm 1991, Afghanistan 2003, and Iraq 2007-2008. When not on active duty she works as a nurse anesthetist at the University of Wisconsin Hospital, enjoys time with her daughter and grandsons, and is active in Chapter 25 Veterans for Peace, and veterans groups to support peace, justice, and the welfare of our returning service members.

Following Conscience Should Not Be Punished, Deserves Support

Op-ed submission to my local paper, The Leader Telegram. They never published it...

In Saturday’s paper you ran an AP article saying that Army Reserve member Kristoffer Walker who went AWOL had “received his punishment” as though he was due punishment for following his conscience. This train of thought leads to people blindly following orders which we learned from the Nuremberg trials is not how military personnel should act. His punishment shows that the U.S. military condemns the act of not blindly following orders which is wrong. After his superiors failed to advance his request for a transfer out of Iraq, Kristoffer made the difficult choice to follow his conscience.

By doing so, Kristoffer showed that he had considered the actions he would be taking by redeploying in support an illegal and immoral war of aggression which has been condemned by just war theory. His act of conscience was not the first and will not be the last as the U.S. seems committed to occupy Iraq and deny the Iraqi people self-determination until 2012 if not longer. Kristoffer joins a group of military members and veterans who say that we must act as our conscience directs and not blindly commit acts.

As a former military member, whose conscience was deeply troubled when the invasion and occupation of Iraq began near the end of my military service, I support Kristoffer and others like Matthis Chiroux. When I was in the military there were no public refusals to deploy and I felt alone to be contemplating such issues. Kristoffer is not alone today as there are thousands who have gone AWOL, deserted, or otherwise followed their conscience in opposition to this illegal occupation. In support of Matthis, I am attending his court martial for refusing an Inactive Ready Reserve call-up from the Army last year in St. Louis on Tuesday and I urge others to support our military members who are strong enough to follow their conscience.

Todd E. Dennis

U.S. Navy 1997-2003

Eleva, WI

A Tribute to Lindy Blake, Vietnam War Resister

Sent via the Displaced Films (Sir! No Sir!) listserv:

Dear Friends,

Below is a beautiful tribute to Lindy Blake, one of the Presidio 27 mutineers, written by his friend and comrade Randy Rowland (who, along with Keith Mather, told the story of the Presidio 27 in Sir! No Sir!). Lindy died recently at his home in Canada, where he has lived since escaping the Presidio stockade in 1968.

Lindy’s Great Escape

It was 40 years ago. We were all young. Facing a potential deathsentence for singing “We Shall Overcome,” the 27 “mutineers”held a meeting in the cell block of the Presidio Stockade. Everyone who could escape should, we decided. We were not cooperating with theBrass, not even to participate in their kangaroo court-marital. Notlong after, some of the Presido 27 did escape. Walter Pawlowski, theguy who stood up during our sit-down, to read our demands to thecommandant, was one of the escapees. Keith Mather, one of the “9-For-Peace,” and the contact I was supposed to meet up with when Iarrived in the stockade, was another. They were recognizableringleaders in the stockade protest which became known as thePresidio Mutiny. They had good reason to leave. Even before the sit-down strike, both were already facing many years in prison for GIresistance to the US invasion and occupation of Viet Nam. Now theyfaced additional charges of mutiny, the most serious of militaryoffenses. Military regulations simply say “there is no maximumsentence” for mutiny.

Later, Lindy Blake and I, both “mutineers,” were cell mates in theprison ward of the post hospital when the first mutiny sentences camedown, for 14 and 16 years, given to the first two of the 27 to becourt martialed. I was the third ringleader, sent in to the stockadeby the movement after a guard had killed a prisoner. My mission hadbeen to learn what was going on inside, and find out what could beorganized to take the prisoners’ struggle to a higher level. Lindywas a free spirit from LA, a lanky, blond hippie dancing to his owntune through the stockade experience. He had refused to go to VietNam, and was facing five years at hard labor. He was quick to flash agrin, knew some yoga postions, and could sing all the words to everyBob Dylan song there ever was. In the photo of the sit down wherePawlowski stands up to read our demands, I can be seen directlybehind him, with glasses on. Lindy sits in front of Pawlowski, armslinked with Mike Marino and Ricky Dodd, looking over his shoulder atthe camera.

Now we were in this cell together, with the mandate to escape if wecould. Lindy and I decided this was as good a chance as we werelikely to get. We were outside the fence, but heavily guarded. Ourcement-walled cell was one of several lining both sides of a shortcorridor. A guard, who held the keys to each cell, was stationed inthe corridor. Another guard manned his post outside a locked gate notfar down the corridor, which separated the prison wing from the restof Letterman General Hospital. A third guard, a rover, armed with a .45, patrolled back and forth outside, covering both sides of theprison wing. We had an outside window and decided the best escape wasthrough its bars, so we arranged for a hack-saw blade to be smuggledin, and began to saw.

We only worked at night. One of us would stand watch at the celldoor, straining at the barred inspection port to catch the firstsight of an approaching guard. The other guy would saw, timing hisefforts to correspond to the 5 or so minutes when the roving guardwas on the other side of the building. To cover the sound of sawing,whoever was watching at the cell door would call down the corridor,asking the guards to turn up their radio. It was San Francisco, 1969.The guards were young too, and at night they tended to sit on eitherside of the mesh that separated them, listening to the FM. If theywere nice guys, they would turn up the music when asked, which keptthem from hearing the sound of our saw blade working the metal bar.If they were jerks, the lookout at the cell door would loud-talkthem, with non-stop begging or verbal abuse. Most of the time theywould turn it up just to drown him out. If they didn’t, his constantnagging provided the sonic cover needed to mask the sound of sawing.

The bars were fairly big, and the going slow. Each morning, when weknocked off for the day, we’d fill in the saw marks with soap, thenblend in the soap with dirt from the floor to make the bar lookwhole. It was tense work, stressful enough to give you the bad pit.If we were caught, it would mean many years of additional charges ontop of all the years we already faced. We only had one chance to getthis right, so we were determined, methodical, and very, verycareful. Finally we had one cut completed, and began on the next. Ourblade was already dull, but eventually we could take the big barcompletely out of the window and then soap it back into place tocover our progress. Each dawn we’d fill in our night’s work withthe bar of soap, dispose of the night’s debris, hide our saw bladeand collapse wearily into our bunks to sleep until the turn-key wouldkick us awake for morning count.

When we were about a week away from being done, I got a visit fromthe Catholic priest who served as my connection to the movement.“We’ve been talking it over, Randy,” he told me, “and wedon’t think you should escape.” His reasoning was sound: the otherrecognizable ringleaders had already escaped. If I fled as well,those still in custody would be left with no solid connection to themovement. He had a moral argument as well. I had been sent into thestockade to organize the protest and if I ran away, those who hadanswered the call to resist would be left to face the drum rollalone. It was the moral equivalent of the captain being the last oneoff the sinking ship.
I wasn’t eager to spend my life in a penitentiary. I was young andnewly married. I had put a lot of work and many tense nights into ourescape plot. But I immediately knew that the priest was right. Icouldn’t go. Back in the cell, I explained to Lindy my decision tostay, and pointed out as cheerfully as I could that there was nothingin the new situation that said that I couldn’t help him escape. Sothat night we started up our old routine, one at the cell door, onesawing at the window.
One time we thought that the plot was exposed. Thinking back, Ican’t remember why we thought that, but to get rid of the evidencewe ditched our hacksaw blade in a laundry hamper, hidden in our dirtysheets. Almost immediately we realized that we had panicked. But nowour blade was across the corridor in a little utility room. Somehowwe conned the turn-key into unlocking the cell to let one of us getinto the utility room barely long enough to retrieve the blade, whilethe other distracted the guard momentarily. That clown act blows thetop off any stress scale ever devised. Once back in the cell with ourprecious blade, and with the turn-key returned to his chair down thecorridor, we danced wildly, between the bunks, out of our minds withfear and excitement. Even now, I can hardly believe we managed toretrieve our blade, but somehow we did, and the work went on.

Then one day, not too long before we figured to be done with ournightly sawing, the guards put another prisoner into the cell withus, a guy we didn’t know. Since we didn’t know him, and didn’thave contact with the general prison population to get anyone else tovouch for him, we decided not to risk the plot by bringing him in onit. His presence in the little cell added a whole new level ofcomplexity to our efforts. We would be as boring as possible eachevening, and he would eventually drift off to sleep. Once he wassound asleep, one of us would take the cell door position, and calldown to the guards like usual, asking them to turn up the music. Onlynow, if they wouldn’t do it, we’d have to wait, because the plan Brazz we had used in the past to cover the noise of sawing would mostlikely wake our cellmate. But often enough the guards would turn uptheir radio, and whoever was at the window, minding the roveroutside, would begin to saw.
The lookout at the door had to watch for the guards in the corridor,and keep another eye on our cellmate. This guy turned out to be asound sleeper, and although he woke up a few times, he neverdiscovered our plot. It was incredibly tense, with the lookout jobthe worst, all worry and no activity. Sawing through steel with ahacksaw blade is tough but the guy with the blade had only to saw andto keep an eye out for the rover. Somehow, the act of sawing seemedto dissipate the tension. On the other hand, the lookout had to puthimself into a state of hyper alertness, to watch our sleepingcellmate, watch for the turn-key in the corridor, and count theminutes before the rover would most likely return to our side of thebuilding. We took turns in each position, not so much to relieve thesawman’s aching fingers, but to relieve the lookout’s stress.

Progress slowed down, but eventually the big night came. I don’tknow how we were able to bore our cellmate to sleep. Finally, at theappointed hour, in the wee hours of a dark night, we waited for therover to head to the other side of the building. Lindy stripped, toavoid having his clothes hang up on the jagged metal. I helped stuffhim through the hole. He dropped to the ground below. I handed down apillowcase full of broken window glass and other debris, threw himhis pants, and he scampered off, naked, into the darkness, sack underhis arm, pants over his shoulder, heading for a pre-arranged placewhere a car was supposed to be waiting to pick him up. That vision ofLindy, sprinting nude into the night, making a break for freedom, wasmy last look at him for many years.

Soaping the big bar back into place, I stuffed his bunk to make itlook like somebody was in it. The longer it took for the guards tonotice he was gone, the greater Lindy’s chances of making good hisget-away. Pleased, but already missing the company of my comrade, Isat for a while on the edge of my bunk. We had pulled it off! Filledwith both a big sense of victory and a huge empty place of sadness, Ifinally curled up and went to sleep.

The next morning, as usual, the turn-key opened the cell door andcame in, kicking each bunk to rouse the prisoners for morning count.At night they just periodically shine a flashlight through theinspection port to count bodies sleeping in bunks, but each morningthey made you get up. This particular morning started off as usual.The guard kicked our cellmate’s bunk, “Get up, get up!” hebarked. The cellmate stirred. The guard walked over to Lindy’s bunkand kicked it, repeating his command. Then he turned to my bunk. Therasp of his key in the lock had put me instantly awake, but I feignedsleep. He kicked my bunk and I pretended to be groggy. Lindy had beengone for hours, but there was no way I could know for sure that hehad been picked up by our co-conspirators on the outside. Determinedto stall as long as possible as a rear-guard action, I took extratime waking up. Finally I was dangling on the edge of my bunk whenthe guard turned back to Lindy, who had not moved. Kicking his bunkwith greater force, the guard yelled “Get up!” and yanked backLindy’s covers, only to realize there was no body in the bed.

Turning to me with a nervous look, the guard growled, “How manyprisoners are supposed to be in this cell?”

“I don’t know, you’re the turn-key,” I shrugged.

Nervously looking around the cell, he retreated back into thecorridor to consult the gate guard. I could hear them swearing downthe hall. In a couple minutes they both came into the cell, aviolation of prison protocol for the gate guard to come inside thegate. They didn’t know what to do. The roster listed threeprisoners, but the cell looked intact. If they reported a missingprisoner, and there was only supposed to be two of us, then theywould be laughingstocks, at best. If they failed to report a missingprisoner, on the assumption that the paperwork was wrong, they wouldbe in deep shit.

They nervously talked to each other while looking around the cell.After all those nights of high anxiety, I was calm. The cellmatereally didn’t know what was going on, but prisoners always enjoyseeing guards get some of their own medicine, so we just silently saton our bunks enjoying the show. The guards were ramping up, searchingthe cell now. There wasn’t really any place for a prisoner to hide,but they searched anyway. They looked under all the bunks. One ofthem walked over, picked up a towel off the floor, as if he expectedto see Lindy hiding beneath it. They were really nervous now, surethere was supposed to be three prisoners, but with no explanation forwhat might have happened. They went back out and consulted the rover.Soon enough all three were in the cell, demanding to know where thethird prisoner was. The cellmate truly didn’t know, and I playeddumb, offering them nothing to ease their situation. The rover, whois never supposed to come into a prisoner area with his weapon, wasnevertheless smarter than the other two and started methodicallyshaking the bars, determined to find an explanation. When he came tothe soaped bar, it pulled off in his hand. He pivoted, wild-eyed,face contorted, steel bar held out like it was some sort of vileobject. All three guards cried out like they’d been stung, andstampeded for the cell door, trying to get through all at once, intheir rush to sound the alarm. We were left behind to placidly eatour breakfast, in a cell with a gaping hole. It was a long time laterwhen somebody higher up the chain of command finally ordered theremaining prisoners be moved to a different, more secure cell.

Lindy had indeed been picked up at the designated place that night,and was spirited away to Vancouver, Canada, where he joined Matherand Pawlowski and a whole community of GI resisters living in exile.

It was almost exactly forty years ago that I helped Lindy escape fromjail. Now Lindy lays dying in this cabin. His grand daughter issoftly playing the old piano. Propped up in a hospital bed, in hisown living room, Lindy is surrounded by windows that look out on thetrees, mostly evergreens, which ring his giant garden. In his line ofvision are rhododendrons in bloom, sagging fences and hand-hewnsheds. A black tail deer stands mid-day in the yard, accepting thegenerosity of family and strangers who have gathered for this passing.

Lindy’s 3-corner fool’s hat, its velvet somewhat faded with age,hangs on a hook near the bed. He lies quietly, mostly sleeping, butarousing once in a while to flash his grin at some new arrival hereto pay him respects. Lindy’s time is measured in days, if not hours.The hospital opened him up, saw he was a goner, and merely suturedhim back up. They released him to spend his last days in the place heloves, among those who love him.

Both of his sons are here with their families. There is a scatteringof friends sitting in the yard. Neighbors drop in with food andsupplies. I notice that the women seem to curtsey or bow to Lindywhen they approach, flashing mischievous grins. They treat him withthe tenderness of old lovers, which-as it turns out-is pretty muchuniversally true.

This place is a hippie’s dream of back to nature. The house postsare pealed logs, some found on the beach nearby, and some harvestedfrom this patch of land on this remote Canadian Island. Walls andceilings are unfinished tongue and groove. The plywood floors arepainted in wild shades of blue and purple. Water comes from rainbarrels on the roof, electricity from solar panels. The room istoasty, heated by the warm rays of the spring sun, and a wood stove.
Lindy told me he knew in his heart for a long time that something waswrong with him. Then a few months back, part of a tree he was fellingstruck him in the chest. After that he attributed his escalating painto the blow, not to cancer. Finally Lindy drove himself to thehospital, and now, only a week or so later, we gather to bid himfarewell.

In response to my call that Lindy was dying, Keith Mather, one of thekey players in the Presidio Mutiny flew up from San Francisco.Together we drove north from Seattle, over the border, taking threeferries to this island, where there are no policemen, to stand by ourcomrade in his final hours.

One of the women who was with him during his short stay in thehospital tells us a classic Lindy story. At one point after receivinghis grim news, he held his breath, she told us, pretending to bedead. She fell for the gag, until he laughed and said “Got you!”

“I was yelling at him, ‘You BASTARD!’” she related in herQuebec French accent, “I was so mad at him. The nurses must havethought I was crazy.”

When Lindy called me from the hospital, to say his end was near, heremarked in that whimsical way of his, “Randy, it seems like I’malways escaping and leaving you behind.” As I sit beside him now,I’m thinking that the significance of a person’s demise iscommensurate with the value of their life. Sharing the prison cellwith Lindy, I learned lessons from him that I have treasured and heldtrue ever since. I’m up here now because he sat down then. I’msure that each person holding death-watch in this hand-made cabin,and many who are not right here, can testify how they, too, weretouched and enriched by rubbing alongside this amazing spirit, my oldcomrade.

My mental image of Lindy has always been of a lithe young man dressedin a three-corner fool’s hat, dancing gently to his own tune,through a happy crowd on a warm summer’s day. He never lost thatflop-eared grin, he never ceased being a free spirit. On April 9,2009, forty years after he escaped from the Presidio, Lindy Blake,Presidio 27 mutineer, lover of many, father of two, passed away inhis home on Cortes Island, at the mouth of Desolation Sound, inCanada. Keith Mather and I stood at his bedside and sang “We ShallOvercome” one last time for him.

I wrote the following while sitting by his bedside that day:

Free Spirits Will Always Escape

Its me, Lindy, the one who helped you peck your way From the cell so many years ago.
I have come, so you may take flight again.I was your co-conspirator then and I call you now,My hummingbird, my jailbird, my escapee.Hover about in the garden. Check the flowers.Peer in the window from time to time,Then flit on, as you will.

I’m here to remove our secret “bar of soap.”Here’s my hand, Brother, step up.Wiggle through the hole to freedom.

I have come for you.When the guards turn their backs,I’ll give you the signal, and once you’re gone,I’ll replace the bar to mask your retreat.Free Spirits will always escape.

March 19th - A Day For Action

Originally published here...

We have now entered the seventh year of the occupation of Iraq. Many people feel the war is over and nothing is to be done. This is far from the truth of the situation surrounding us today.

About six years ago, I was being interviewed for a Quality Assurance Supervisor certification by my boat's (USS Santa Fe – SSN-763) Captain. The backdrop to our interview was a picture from the San Francisco demonstrations where a sign was made saying We Support Our Troops Who Shoot Their Officers and the officers in the wardroom joking about not giving me a gun. As someone who was silently opposed to the invasion of Iraq during my military service and was slowly becoming a pacifist, I felt this comment was inappropriate since I could never commit such an act. Just as we began the interview, the clip from Michael Moore's acceptance speech aired where he talks about living in fictitious times with a war based on lies and deception aired. Today these words which were not widely accepted ring true as we the U.S. is currently engaged in occupying two nations, Iraq and Afghanistan, with no plan for empowering the peoples of these countries with self-determination and control of their future beyond the continuing occupation.

Many may feel that talking about the past is not necessary at this point in history, after all we have the first minority president, the occupation of Iraq is ending (maybe), enlistment numbers are increasing due to the faltering economy, and there are many other issues facing this nation. However, we must reflect on the past and ask how we got to where we are today.

Past promises have been made and broken so we must step up and make the current promises come to fruition. A few months before leaving the military, I was told that the mission was accomplished in Iraq and that major combat operations were over. After the war began, I was frantically researching how to avoid supporting an occupation that I felt was unjust. I learned of a Marine who refused to deploy during the first Gulf War in 1991 from a base that was just a couple miles from where I lived in Hawaii at the time. Luckily because the war was declared over, I didn't have to make the same sacrifice that Jeff Paterson did and refuse to deploy with my submarine since our deployment was pushed back later into 2003. I was able to complete my enlistment and leave the military behind with no worry of being recalled like the over 58,000 who have been subjected to stop-loss and been sent to war after their enlistment ended. Now we hear that after over seven years, this program will be phased out, by the end of 2011 just as with the troop withdrawal there is plenty of time for this plan to change unless we demand that it end. We were told that Obama would end the occupation of Iraq and bring our troops home; since he has taken office he has instead shirked off this plan and instead is saying that up to 50,000 U.S. military members will be occupying Iraq until some unknown date . He has also escalated the occupation of Afghanistan with an additional 17,000 U.S. troops with no known plan for their use at a time when NATO countries are being asked to commit 4,000 more troops but few countries stepping forward to continue this occupation .

If we continue to sit back and allow military intervention be the plan for foreign policy and the refusal of self-determination for occupied countries we will continue to live as a country at war. We must take action to end the occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan. We must also take action to prevent U.S. aid from causing unnecessary death and suffering as we have seen with the aggressive behavior of Israel over the past years, including the use of banned munitions during the recent siege of Gaza

There are many ways to get involved. This weekend the ANSWER coalition is holding marches in DC, Los Angeles, and San Francisco on March 21st and there are other demonstrations around the country to mark the somber day called the anniversary of the invasion and occupation of Iraq. There will be an event at Civic Square/Clas Park in Milwaukee on Saturday. On April, 4th to mark the anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech at the Riverside Church, United For Peace and Justice is holding a march in New York City, with local demonstrations planned in many communities like Madison.

It is clear as Obama as said himself that,

"I have always said that I don't think that the LGBT community should take its cues from me or some political leader in terms of what they think is right for them. Real change comes from the bottom up, not the top down."

We must build a movement to demand an end to the occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan and take heed from past warnings about militarism from Eisenhower's Farewell Address,

"In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the militaryindustrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist…. We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together."

and Dr. King at Riverside Church,

"War is not the answer. Communism will never be defeated by the use of atomic bombs or nuclear weapons. Let us not join those who shout war and, through their misguided passions, urge the United States to relinquish its participation in the United Nations…. We can no longer afford to worship the god of hate or bow before the altar of retaliation. The oceans of history are made turbulent by the ever-rising tides of hate. History is cluttered with the wreckage of nations and individuals that pursued this self-defeating path of hate."

Today we can substitute terrorism for communism and military aggression and occupation for atomic weapons. We must work to end militarism in all its forms in addition to ending the occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan.

March 19th can be a day of reflection on the past but it must also be a day that we take action to move our demands forward to create the world we wish to see.

Todd Dennis is a U.S. Submarine Service veteran, a board member of the Clarence Kailin Chapter of Veterans For Peace and the President of the Madison Chapter of Iraq Veterans Against the War. He has B.S. in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Wisconsin, will be receiving a B.S. in Physics in May and is awaiting word on his application for graduate school in peace studies.

IVAW-Madison thanks concert attendees and silent auction donors for a successful fundraiser

Joan Baez Concert Benefits IVAW-Madison

True Endeavors, a local promoter that we have worked with in the past to table at local music shows, set up the event and arranged for IVAW-Madison to be the benefactor of $1 for each ticket sold for the Joan Baez concert on Saturday. We were chosen from a list of local non-profits by Baez. Thanks to each of the 810 people who purchased a ticket and attended the show and thanks to True Endeavors for suggesting IVAW as a benefactor.

IVAW-Madison also thanks all of those who helped us hold up a silent auction at the event. Thanks to donations from the following businesses, authors, and artists we were also able to raise an additional $800:

• Aaron Glantz: Signed copies of The War Comes Home and Winter Soldier:Iraq & Afghanistan
  


• Capitol City Tattoo: Gift Certificate
  


• Center for Media and Democracy, especially John, Judith and Sheldon: Signed copies of The Best War Ever and Weapons of Mass Deception
  


• Chocolate Shoppe Ice Cream: Gift Certificates
  


• Community Pharmacy: Gift Basket
  


• Ear Wax Record Shop: Gift Certificate
  


• Escape Java Joint & Art Gallery: Gift Certificates, being a host for chapter meetings and host for the planning of Madison Winter Soldier
  


• Fair Trade Coffeehouse: Gift Certificates
  


• Film Wisconsin and Scott Robbe: Gift Bag
  


• Gail Ambrosius Chocolatier: Gift Certificate
  


• Mother Jones: Year Subscription
  


• Just Coffee Cooperative: Bags of Coffee, Gift Bag, and Tea
  


• Lazy Jane’s: Gift Certificates
  


• Joan Baez: Signed CDs
  


• Kilmark & Associates: Financial Assesment
  


• La Rocca’s Restaurant & Pizzeria: Gift Certificate
  


• Lakeside Printing Cooperative: Fliers to hand out at concert, IVAW informational brochures,...
  


• Mother Fool’s Coffeehouse: Gift Certificates
  


• Northwood Farm: Gift Certificates for organic beef at their Farmer's Market Stand
  


• Pfister Hotel and Scott Robbe for setting it up: Weekend for two in a luxury room with a Champagne basket
  


• Rainbow Bookstore Cooperative: Gift Certificate
  


• SERRV International: Haitian Handcarved Riverstone Mother and Child
  


• SNAP Fitness: Three Month Membership
  


• Songs for Our Soldiers: a CD to give to each winner in the silent auction
  


• Stephanie Rearick: Signed CDs
  


• Stu Levitan: Signed copy of Madison: The Illustrated Sesquicentennial History
  


• Sundance Cinema: Movie Passes
  


• The Dardanelles: Gift Certificate
  


• The Progressive: Year Subscription

During the current troubling economic times it was difficult to be turned away from many other local businesses that were unable to donate towards the silent auction so we are especially grateful to those that could help us out. If you visit any of these businesses please thank them for supporting our work through their donation to our silent auction.