War used to be easy to identify. It happened between states—governments, actually—according to predictable rules. But when someone blows up a building for a political cause, is it an act of war, or a crime? When bin Laden’s people did it in September, 2001, it was an act of war. When McVey et. al. did it in 1993, it was treated as a crime. When Iraqis do it, it’s treated as both at once.

It’s important to know the difference, because our constitution limits what police can do. They are forbidden, for example, from driving down the road shooting whoever looks suspicious. They aren’t permitted to arrest people and put them in secret prisons with no access to attorneys, and without filing charges.

The idea isn’t new that “rights” just don’t apply to certain groups of people. We’ve all heard someone say that child molesters don’t have rights. Lately, we hear that terrorists don’t have rights.

But here in America, we’re supposed to understand that people are innocent until proven guilty. Innocent men have rights. If we forget that because of the horror of the crimes involved, we will have given up on what it means to be freedom-lovers.

This is Eugene, Oregon, where the cops doing a “drug raid” (on a residential neighborhood where people were growing weed) felt they needed armored vehicles and grenades. It’s funny; we’re not a violent people. We don’t accept oppression easily, but generally, it’s peaceful protests the powers have to worry about.

But is it any wonder they were scared? I mean, what they were doing is outrageous. And in Eugene, when something’s outrageous, we get outraged.

On my first trip, in April-May 2003, we would walk out on the streets of Baghdad at night, albeit with caution. Even on my second trip, in the summer of 2003, I would feel comfortable hopping in a car and driving 100 miles north from Baghdad to Tikrit. To do either of those things now would be suicidal.

His chronicle of the war, Fiasco: America’s Military Adventure in Iraq, gives senior military officials a voice for their frustrations, and brings us a clear view of both the heroes and the tragic mistakes of this “adventure.”

I used to be a child.

I had great parents who loved me and respected me as a person. But sometimes, it was scary. And sometimes, I remember.

So tonight, I was explaining something to my son, and I said, “Do you remember the story of that time my family was playing a game, and my sister rolled her die carelessly, and Dad backhanded her?”

M__’s mouth hung open. “Backhanded her? Hard?”

“She had a bloody lip,” I told him. “You sure I didn’t tell you about this? I thought we’d covered all that.”

“Well, we did, but… I mean, I knew you were hit, but I thought it was, like, a rare thing.”

“It was rare. That’s why I remember this particular incident.”

I wasn’t bothered by the discussion, as far as I know, but only a few hours later, when another son was upstairs and said something bold to one of his brothers, I reacted with a rush of adrenaline and fear. Whoa, where’d that come from?

I realized that I was scared. And apparently, my gut was scared that the people upstairs were going to get in a fight and scream at each other and beat on each other and break doors. And I realized why I react so strongly to my children’s inclinations to fight. I have very few non-negotiable demands, but here is one: “We do not speak to each other that way in this house.”

I thought I was done with this a long time ago. I don’t dwell on misfortune, but I acknowledge it, grieve and move on. But this year has held some surprises. This year I remember what it felt like to be that little girl. I remember arguments and physical fights my parents had. I remember not knowing if they would still be there when I came home. I remember my half-brother. (And that memory was a god-send. I finally realized why, before I met my husband, I never believed anyone loved me.)

I know that people do the best they can in their circumstances, and that despite their efforts, certain kinds of chaos can be devastating to kids. I know that adults don’t choose to live in a chaotic hell, if they can figure out a better way, so I don’t feel inclined to lay a lot of blame. And, as I said, my parents were loving, and wonderful in many ways. They encouraged me to think, and gave me strength to endure the hard times.

But I’ve been getting blindsided by memories, and feeling scared again. My body feels it.

In the dark, knees crossed
arms wrapped, I’m not here

I’m not here but I’m shaking

The sounds find me hiding

muffled voices through the floor
front door latch
woman’s grief

car door
engine’s cough

patter of tires on wet road

Daddy’s gone, and I’m rocking
(or the house is)

and I’m waiting
in the dark

and I’m waiting

I’d like to know why I can feel this now, like it’s happening, now. It’s almost like the little girl is still here. Like time doesn’t exist. I can feel it. I could never feel it before.

Funny, to this day when something’s bothering me, I will stay awake at night. I’ve called it keeping vigil, but I never connected it to that memory before. Of course, I’ve never really connected myself with that memory either.

We are supposed to be at war in Iraq, but not against Iraq. And certainly not against the Iraqi civilians. But I wonder if part of the problem is that we don’t know who we’re fighting.

In World War II, when U.S. forces fought in France, it was clear that we were fighting against German Nazis. The French were happy to have us there. When U.S. troops entered Afghanistan, the war was (and is) against Afghanistan under the Taliban government, who provided refuge to Al Quaeda.

When soldiers entered Iraq, the war was with Iraq under the rule of Saddam Hussein. You may have noticed that Hussein is no longer in charge there. But we are still fighting. No one there has weapons of mass destruction. Who is the enemy? With no Hussein, can we still call this thing in Iraq a war?

By now, some foreign America-haters have taken the opportunity to join the fray. Mostly, though, we’re fighting Iraqis who don’t want us there. Maybe instead of calling it a war, we should call it “helping the Iraqi government restore and maintain peace.” But helping would imply that if the Iraqi government said “Thanks, we’ll be fine now. Bye-bye,” the U.S. troops would come home, that if the Iraqis elected not to host foreign bases, we’d quietly move on. And nobody believes that.

It’s been called a “war on terror.” That doesn’t actually name an enemy, but we’re not supposed to notice that. I do notice, though, and I also notice that terrorism seems to be what you call the acts of war committed by the weak side. When the strong side terrorizes civilians in order to gain compliance, we call that “winning the hearts and minds.”

What we’re fighting is rebellion. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us.” Terrorism is simply a method for rebellion. It’s what small forces use to fight large ones. It’s horrible, but no more horrible than war.

If you can’t really be at war against terrorism, an idea, maybe we’re at war against terrorists, the people. Let’s see. There’s Al Quaeda. That’s a given. Then there are the Sunnis and Shias that kill each other in Iraq. Then there’s the Iraqi military, and you never know who they’re going to kill. (Same for the U.S. Military, apparently.)

Here’s the point. If “the war” were against Al Quaeda, then when Al Quaeda’s leaders are brought down, it will be over. If “the war” were against Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, it’d be over now. After all, Americans are not fighting the Republican Guard. That war is done.

But this war is not going to be over anytime soon. The reason we don’t have a named enemy is that the American government is fighting a war against rebellion, against anyone who doesn’t follow its plan.

It’s been called “the long war.” And it will be long. Rebellion isn’t going to be eradicated any time soon.

Meanwhile, Iraq is a prison, with our soldiers the guards, trapped right along with the rioting inmates. Rebellious or just potentially rebellious, all prisoners are suspect, and presumed guilty of something.

The song, in turn, was based on a traditional story about a fellow who, when he was to be released from prison, wrote a letter to his sweetie asking her to let him know if he would be welcome by tying a yellow ribbon around the oak tree in the yard.

The connection between the story (made popular by the song) and the current yellow ribbon craze is a bit strange. But don’t worry; the history lesson will be brief.

In October of 1979, the deposed leader of Iran, the Shah, was admitted to the U.S. for medical treatment, angering many Iranians. In November the American Embasy was attacked, and 66 Americans were taken hostage. Some were released, but most were kept for the next 14 months.

It was a very difficult time in America. Anger against Iranian-Americans was strong, prices were high, and people were afraid. Yellow ribbons sprouted on trees and cars and houses saying “We haven’t forgotten you, we are working to get you home, and we will welcome you.”

It’s a lovely message, and it’s a darn shame that it’s been lost in the current hysteria. I’d be proud to wear a yellow ribbon that means “We’re sorry you’re trapped in a horrible place. We haven’t forgotten you, we are working to get you home, and we will welcome you.”

Yesterday, he asked me whether there were any circumstances in which it would be ok to lie. As I thought about it, I found the writings of both Mohatma Gandhi and Marshall Rosenberg coming to mind. Here is some of what Gandhi had to say:

I have been repeating over and over again that he who cannot protect himself or his nearest and dearest or their honour by non-violently facing death may and ought to do so by violently dealing with the oppressor.

…

Self-defence….is the only honourable course where there is unreadiness for self-immolation.

Though violence is not lawful, when it is offered in self-defence or for the defence of the defenceless, it is an act of bravery far better than cowardly submission. The latter befits neither man nor woman. Under violence, there are many stages and varieties of bravery. Every man must judge this for himself. No other person can or has the right.
And Marshall Rosenberg tells us that sometimes the protective use of force is called for, but never punitive use, and that the protective use of force is neither a method of communication nor a way to teach a lesson (or help someone learn). It is a way to prevent harm.

I’m not sure yet if it’s a metaphor, or if lying and force are more literally equivalent. But lying is clearly a way to change someone’s behavior or response to match your agenda, rather than her own. The policeman at my door would presumably prefer to follow her own agenda with accurate information about the situation, rather than basing her choices on a lie. The same is true for the next-door-neighbor who wonders how our homeschooling is going.
What I’ve noticed is that there are situations that might well result in harm to me or my loved ones if I were to tell the truth. In the case of a neighbor, personal questions may result in harsh judgements or gossip. For the police officer, there may be a danger of corruption. Then, of course, there is the famous example of the Nazis at the door, asking if you’ve seen the little Jewish girl.

So the answer I gave my son was that in self-defense (or defense of another), I think it may be ok to lie. “Oh, good,” he told me. He’s so cool.

My kids would never imagine that I’d condone any kind of violence against loved ones.

So, obviously, this PSA wasn’t aimed at me. Who was it aimed at, then? The families that beat their kids? If a parent hasn’t taught their kids that a home is a safe, loving place, how is a new lecture from those same parents going to teach them?

The explanation is pretty simple. The PSA is not intended to change anything. It’s just another of the subtle lies we live with. It’s a lullaby, with a hidden message: Don’t worry about how screwed up the world is. All you have to do is listen to PSAs. Everything’s under control.

This interview at webmonkey really sums it up nicely. If you want to read more about her, her blog is at subvert.com.

I wonder if she knows about NVC?

If you’re interested in really getting what’s going on with this war, you should definitely watch it. It’s not some whacked-out conspiracy thing. It’s the real story, with interviews with real, somewhat ordinary government people talking about what our foreign policy is about.

(And as an added bonus, you can see a picture of Rumsfeld having a buddy-buddy chat with Mr. Hussein.)