Doing Time for Peace: Resistance, Family, and Community

Epilogue: “Winter Begins”

ePilogUe I t was the winter of 2003. The voice of the people had not been heard in the land and Baghdad had been bombed and occupied. Shivering in the Michigan cold, Saginaw resisters continued to vigil—night and day for over a week—braving the newly vociferous flag-wavers to say, “Not in our name. We continue to resist.” One of our group, Morgan Guyton, wrote: Winter Begins It does no good to scream; with one wet syllable, winter can white out your words. “Move! Move!” The ghost baton finds all the skin that it needs. “War’s not worth the weight of sleet,” shrug the trees. “Just drop your leaves and go.” The wind will not negotiate; The wind will not negotiate; it speaks through a bullhorn: “Don’t stop; don’t look at me; do you want your eyes to bleed?” The snarls of ice-dogs slice through thickets of squatting families. The panic bells are drawn and bugles begin to carpet the landscape. 337 A million trembling hands fiddle with new uniforms; the march begins— Snow too thick for horizons, steps too quick to leave footprints, hands concealed, eyes only on the boots ahead. If only the snowdrifts held their history . . . If only we had a compass . . . “We need a fire!” somebody shouts. So you gather the forest’s bones into an altar; from spittle and sneers, the arms of a cedar shield the young kindling. Yes, you blow through cracks too small for No, and soon a new mother has laid her first coals. In time, the young furnace gains a voice. Other fire-starters signal you through the god. A crowd has gathered— watching till we’re warm enough to sing; singing till we’re soft enough to cry. As courage opens our lungs, we shout over the blizzard; more people stop. Winter screams over louder, lashing the legs of the curious: “Move along! Just move along now!” 338 Doing Time for Peace But now our forest blaze has stopped the flow of traffic, Our bodies form a barricade, for which winter reads us our consequences: We will get sprayed till the frost holds open our eyes; our ears will bleed; our lips will seal shut; we may lose fingers. But if we all stand close enough and cover the hope with our hands, if our smiles become mirrors and our eyes become torches, if we wipe each other’s cheeks and tie our sweaters together, Then we can refuse to march this winter.1 “Tie our sweaters together.” I’ve never forgotten that line. If I’ve learned a lesson in compiling this book, it’s that only in community can we continue to work, to hope, to fight the fear that causes a disabling cynicism, to continue to pull at the taproot of violence. So find a community or create your own. Find sweaters to tie together as you continue the work. ePilogUe 339 ...