I believe that the freedom is a gift from the Almighty

In the third presidential debate with John Kerry, President Bush said the words “I believe that freedom is a gift from the Almighty” and I got chills.  I think it was one of the most powerful things President Bush ever said.  And he said it with authority.  Lately all things political annoy me too much to try to care about.  I’m just keeping my head down because I thought maybe it doesn’t really matter in the end.  But then I started reading about the protests in Iran and I remembered why it matters.  Freedom is a gift from the Almighty.  And people have always recognized that.  People have always fought for freedom and died for freedom.  Why is that?  What makes freedom so important to people across all religious and political lines?

In case you are hiding under a rock, the jist of the Iranian conflict is: An election was held and last Friday President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was re-elected, a lot of Iranians are crying fowl.  From the Los Angeles Times

Days after Khamenei blessed the election of Ahmadinejad and urged Iranians to rally behind the president, the spokesman of the Guardian Council urged Mousavi’s supporters to wait for the “final results” of Friday’s election until after the fraud investigation, which will begin today.

For some reason the people of Iran have lost faith in the political process, for some reason, a lot of Iranians do not believe that a rigged election can be fixed through any kind of “fraud investigation”.  Hmm.  So, despite being threatened with beatings or worse a million people took to the streets (from the same article)

Monday’s crowd — estimates of which ranged to more than 1 million — defied Interior Ministry warnings broadcast on state television and radio that anyone showing up would be beaten or worse, and even ignored Mousavi’s last-minute call to cancel the event.

The protesters found out about the rally despite a media clampdown that brought the shuttering of numerous opposition websites, including those linked to Mousavi, the jamming of satellite news channels and the shutdown of text messaging systems.

In an attempt to help keep information flowing, a Twitter co-founder wrote in a blog Monday that the company had delayed an important maintenance operation.

Yeah, seems to me that if a government is threatening violence to its own people for speaking out–they probably aren’t going to take a fraud investigation very seriously.  So all kinds of people came out.  They came out to Azadi [Freedom] Square.  To quote some of the folks quoted in the LAT article,

“I am fed up with the rigging of votes,” said Nargess Hassanpour, a 24-year-old architect. “I had never voted until last Friday. I am here and I march toward Azadi [Freedom] Square as far as I can reach, and let come what may.”

and

“If I died today it would be perfect,” said Hossein, a 60-year-old retired schoolteacher in the crowd who didn’t want to be further identified. “The nation of Iran has woken up.”

and (this is a chant, not a direct quote, but still)

As night fell, people ascended to their rooftops and chanted “God is Great!” in what is becoming a nightly ritual of protest against Ahmadinejad’s reelection.

And this is what it looks like:

I don’t know why freedom and blood go hand in hand.  I guess it is because our blood is the most precious commodity we have.  Exchanging blood for the concept of freedom, of a free election, of personal freedom is the most powerful way to say that freedom is indeed a gift from God.  And anyone who tries to come between that gift and people who recongize its worth will eventually be defeated.  I believe that.  There is a lot of evil in this world.  And for the purpose of this article I’m defining evil as any power that seeks to take away liberty.  It happens all over the world in many different ways.  I have no doubt that eventually freedom will prevail.  Until then I will always be inspired by those who stand up and give everything they have to make it happen.

 

Some Pictures

My crew walking to the cemetary on Memorial day

Asher planting a flag

Hila

Gabe looking pained

Hannah being a cutie.

All the kids at the zoo.

Tali-Ho!

Fun sea lioin playing with us.

Me and Hannie on the tram.

 

First There

The best special forces.  The perfect combination of hardcore and intelligence.

 

The value of blood

We will spend part of Memorial day following a tradition I started when I was in High school.  Ever since I was 16 I have decorated the graves of the men who have served in the armed forces during a war.  Its not much, just a little flag, and just a little token.  And in the cemetery that I have adopted, I’m not sure any of those people actually died in a war.  But its about teaching my children to respect something that I have somehow come to respect.  The value of blood.  Of putting one’s life on the line in the service of our country.

I can’t say exactly how this became so important to me.  My dad was in the military.  My grandfather was in Vietnam.  I suppose growing up with that legacy made me respect the proud history of the United States military.  Right now I have a renewed awe for service men and women.  I read Mark Bowden’s book about the 1993 battle in Mogadishu.  The description was thorough, Bowden spends dozens of pages describing moments of the battle.  My dad knew two of the men who were there.  Air Force PJ (elite medic) Tim Wilkinson and Combat Controller Dan Schilling.  After I read Bowden’s book, I saw on Amazon that there was a book of first-hand accounts that included the accounts of Wilkinson and Schilling. (The Battle of Mogaishu: First Hand Accounts of Task Force Ranger)  Wilkinson was in a team that fast-roped in to help the first downed Black Hawk.  He was among the 99 men who were pinned down over night.  Wilkinson risked his life three times running into heavy fire to retrieve medical supplies to treat the wounded.  Schilling was part of the “lost convoy” who drove around in the hostile city getting shot up until there were more wounded than not.  The convoy made it back to the UN base, unloaded the wounded and dead and then immediately rearmed and prepared to go back out.  One of the comments that Wilkinson made in his account was that its easy to get a man to go into combat the first time.  But the real heroes are those who have gone the first time and then willingly go back in again.  He talked about how in the World Wars, those soldiers were in combat for months on end.  It wasn’t just one night for them, but a droning hellish reality.

I don’t think we can comprehend what that is, even after a hundred books on the subject. These men don’t feel like heroes.  And in fact, in the mind bending brutality of war, there are wounds that don’t ever heal.  There are things that can’t be spoken of.  There are things that defy description.  Men that come back from war, even without shedding blood–they’ve paid in their blood.  You can’t know and see things without it becoming a part of your body.  The trauma is fed minute by minute, day after day with precious, nourishing blood.  I believe our stories lie dormant in our blood.  As attributed to Plato at the beginning of the movie Black Hawk Down, “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

So every Memorial day, I take my children to a cemetary that is just down the road from the house I grew up in.  Nobody I know is burried there.  Nobody even distanly related to me is burried there.  But you can see on the grave markers to symbol, a cross in a circle.  And most have the war they fought in inscribed on their stones.  I pay respect to these men.  They are only men in our cemetary.  It is symbolic.  In paying respect in that place, I am teaching my children the value of blood.  We won’t know the end of war in our lifetime.  We’re not even close.  But I believe, if we could just try to comprehend the sacrifices.  If we could multiply them millions of times over.  If we could even try to comprehend the enormity of what has been done in the name of freedom… if we could comprehend the pain and sorrow of mothers and of wives whose loved ones paid in blood… I’d like to believe we might get closer to seeing the end of war.  That could take a lifetime.  Maybe it always has.

 

Lithium and water

When I got married, nearly 12 years ago, I somehow lucked out and married the perfect man for me.  I’m saying its luck, but it probably has more to do with divine intervention or what some people might say the right alignment of stars.  I am serious. Ever noticed how knowing people makes you better aware of yourself?  Have you ever tried to map out the relationships you’ve had with other people and how they formed you, how the changed you or how they completely burned you out?

This idea came to me in the form of chemistry.   I don’t know how I’m not a chemist.  But, that is what people call it.  Chemistry.  The way we blend in to one another, the way we react to one another.  Sometimes its volatile, sometimes its a subtle poisoning.  Sometimes is a flash burn.  Sometimes its a slow burn.  But if you are lucky, like me–the elements are mutually respectful and tend to enhance and preserve one another.  Every single male I was ever interested in before I met my husband was the same.  Very artistic.  I am artistic, so it makes sense.  But I think the effect of two artistic people coming together is like lithium in water.  Immediate fireworks, followed by a slow burn-down.  Its easy to see why that is exciting and wonderful.  How one could get hooked on the chemical reaction.  But it doesn’t last.  It can’t last.  Just think about it.  Can you think of one artist-artist couple who survived?  I can’t.  In our society, we’re attracted to the flame. Its what we think love is, because that is how its been translated.  Even at 19, I saw the value of arranged marriages.  Of putting elements (man and woman) together in a way harmonious with the stars, instead of letting them attract each other and watch the reaction.  Just look how unsuccessful this is, usually.  Most of the time, really.

When I met my husband, something moved inside my soul.  I didn’t recognize it as love.  Because loving–to me–always meant fireworks.  With my husband it was something cool and penetrating.  I am water.  When he settled into my mind, my thoughts, it moved me.  The way that a stone dropping into water moves water.  Not steam and fire, just concentric circles radiating outward to the shore.  The energy was gentle, I didn’t understand it at first.  Now I do, and I’m so grateful.  I’m grateful for the powers that moved us together.  I’m grateful that I knew–even without knowing.  We lie together warming and cooling with the earth and its as it should be.  Beautiful, sustainable, lovely…eternal.

Lately, I’ve been brought out of the literal world.  Into a litterary world.  I’m seeing things that I would have missed before, just because I am sensative to powers that are invisible.  Ideas, emotions, the stars, attraction.  Languages of blood and electricity.  There is an explanation for everything, I’ve learned.  The answers are not as exciting as the questions, if you know what I mean.

 

Thanks, Melin, now its in my head too.

Weezer: Island in the Sun: Spike Jonze

 

This is why Tom Waits shouldn’t sing Tom Waits’ songs

I’m sorry, I just don’t get why people are so loyal.  His voice is creepy, homicidal creepy.  It has always made me think of a cross between a slobbering bulldog and cookie monster.  This works.  I get his music this way:

 

Jai Ho!

I’m not going to justify myself.  I’m just saying… it was so worth it.  I’d see it again.  I will see it again.

 

Easter Pics

Hannie saying “Cheese!” in her easter dress

Easter Dresses

Easter Basket discovery

Handsome Gabe

Kids in their Easter clothes

Hannie will tell your fortune!

Hannie hunting eggs in her princess dress

Me and Hannie hunting eggs

Hila’s favorite thing from her basket–a rat.

The kids after hunting eggs at Mema’s

 

First psychotic break

Wandering down the isles of the supermarket, I was multi-tasking.  Waiting for an oil change, and a perscription to be filled while also doing my grocery shopping for the week.  My mind was whirring and chaotic, flashing from products to sale tags and vaguely entertaining questions from my 3 year old.  Children are adept at getting one’s attention when they want it.  Even when they have it.  My son has me to himself today and I enjoy lavishing him with my affection, but when I’m shopping, its business.  Gabe has this way of breaking down barriers.  He has darling, expressive brown eyes and he has a way of lighting up his whole face when he wants you to look at him.  When that doesn’t work, he uses his body movements, quick and jerky to get the job done.  Sometimes he dances a little jig, sometimes he starts running while shifting his shoulders from side to side.  Today he’s trapped in the shopping cart.  Its nearing lunchtime and so all food looks interesting.  Gabe points at everything in the isle, the end-cap and since I am only vaguely aware of his show, he amps it up a bit.  Instead of pointing, he extends his entire arm with his whole hand outstretched at items over his head and out of reach.

“It looks like I have a friend here.”  Says an old voice in a familiar foreign accent.

I registered the comment after I had looked up in the man’s direction.  His rippled old skin is shining and soft looking.  Almost like cookie dough.  There was something mis-shapen about something around his mouth.  Possibly a faded old scar.  I tried not to stare.  His eyes search mine while I glance down at my son, still frozen like a statue with his arm outstretched like a tiny little Nazi giving a Hal Hitler.  I didn’t put it together just then, I tried to remember my manners.

“Gabe, say hello.”  I urge my son to notice the man and be polite.  That is what I do when I’m not sure what to say.  The children are the only reason older people ever talk to me.

The man seems a little arrogant or something, most people just want to smile and talk to my children.  Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it and he pushed on.  I was half-way down the isle when I noticed Gabe doing his arm thing again and I placed the old man’s accent, decidedly German.  Something went  cold and I stopped right in front of the hot chocolate.  What the?  No.  Is it possible I actually just met…no.

It seems like a hallucination or an apparition that spontaneously appeared in public.  Or maybe that actually happened.  I’m reading a book written by a Jewish psychologist on the Nazi doctors.  So maybe that is why my mind put that scenerio together the way it did.  But the thing is, I wasn’t even thinking about that book.  It had been days since I’d picked it up.  I know the mind is complex and in a way our memory can change to fit whatever we want it to.  I’m just wondering if it is possible to have met either an actual Nazi or some old Nazi sympathiser in Wal-mart?  I think any that survived would have way to much shame associated with their past to bring it up casually to a stranger in the grocery isle??  Or was that some kind of psychotic break from reality?  I’ll know if that guy shows up somewhere else to head to the shrink.  Or the neurologist.  Or maybe I’m reading too much into this…