6 Years Later and Why I am Still a Peace Activist

She joined our peace group carrying a homemade sign. It wasn’t just a “Peace Now” sign or even similar to the six-foot “Pray for Peace, Act for Peace” banner that I brought. It was a sign made out of pain. It was covered with red paint, similar to blood, spattered on an attached doll. It was eerily similar to those cringe causing signs held at anti-abortion rallies. She wore a large hooded sweatshirt and an invisible wall of protection.

Over six years ago the tension was building, as it was evident that the neo-cons would start the war for which they hungered. I wasn’t an organizer then but I had a strong inner drive to seek out peace rallies.

The day after the Iraq war started the local Peace and Justice group held a riverside candlelight vigil. Year 2, I sought out a rally on the street while vacationing in Florida. Year 4 I traveled to Washington DC and shared the evening in the National Cathedral and marched to the White House with fellow Christians. In 08 the election motivated over 100 ralliers to 2 demonstrations in our city.

Everyone has a story, especially activists. People wonder where I get my energy to continue to plan rallies, talk on the radio and lead the local progressive group. I have my story. My drive was born from grief and fueled by the desire that others would not have to share my story. My 18 year-old son died in a car wreck 11 years ago. It was an accident but sending soldiers to a war is not an accident. I could not bear the thought of some mother, somewhere hearing that knock on the door that would forever change her and her family.

Year six started out quieter; maybe because Obama was president, maybe because there was a promise that this war would end and maybe because we were just all tired. This year we sang and prayed, sang and prayed for peace and healing. We were 13 strong, a veteran, a minister, a musician, a mother and child, four seniors, and three pacifist- 12 plus the woman with the sign. The minister led us in prayer, the musician led us in song, and the seniors held the banner. Each held a flower with a name of a fallen soldier from our district. We quietly read the names and placed it in the vase. 4924
Is not just a number, 10 lives were lost from our neighborhoods.

Then she pulled back her hood uncovering her long red hair that matched the picture of a child and the grown soldier on her poster. My mother’s heart ached and the group understood why we keep gathering year after year.


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