SOA Protest

I have been remiss in getting my journals typed up and posted, so here goes an attempt to catch up! Most of these were written months or weeks ago, but when the incidents occurred is not important.

* * *

A wet and chilly early morning saw a silver Prius roll away from Grant Street. Alan relinquished his bike for the day and took the helm of his Dad’s car. I assumed the role of babbling co-pilot, thanks to a to-go cup of coffee. Katie, Alan’s friend, lay swathed in sweatshirts in the back seat. Poor Alan, he’s really not a morning person. My attempt at deep conversation was probably not appreciated at 6:00 am.

Arriving in Columbus, we pulled into a Wendy’s parking lot, absorbed the last bit of warm air, and dashed across four lanes of traffic towards the protest. This was the final day of the annual demonstration outside the gates of the School of the Americas (now renamed Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation). Located adjacent to Ft. Benning and funded by U.S. tax dollars, the school trains Latin American soldiers in combat and counterinsurgency techniques. Assassins of Archbishop Oscar Romero… trained at SOA. Two leaders of the Honduran coup this past June… trained at SOA.

We pushed towards the end of the street where a Mayan sun salutation was underway. Apparently the sun wasn’t convinced it should salute us back. Next, from the stage, several human rights organizations from Latin America stood with banners and testified to the murder of their families and neighbors by paramilitary trained at the School of the Americas. Then, we sang a few peace songs, some written especially for the occasion. It felt right to dance a bit to “Gonna Lay Down my Sword and Shield” (also good for keeping warm).

Sensing that we were too far from the action, we pushed (respectfully of course) past the port-a-potties and fair trade-shade grown-organic coffee vendor, closer up to the stage. Someone read statements about abuses perpetrated by the U.S. military machine in Latin America, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc. The grey misty air was cold with a shimmery sensation. I felt suspended in the coincidence, the irony of life’s seemingly disparate parts that suddenly reveal themselves to be integrated.

Back from Baghdad, my cousin Stuart had been behind these Fort Benning gates for months. Next week I would be eating BBQ in his honor before he ships out to Afghanistan.

* * *

Someone handed us each a white cross, two paint stirrers nailed together. We now grasped a marker of a life ended by SOA trainees. José Rosario Suarez, El Salvador. ¿Quién fue él? It seemed absurd that his life was condensed into his humbly Sharpied name on a cross held by a gringa.

Up on stage, a collection of leaders took turns singing the name of each victim in a melodic minor chant. After each name, we the thousands in the crowd raised our crosses and in response sung, “Presente.” Present and accounted for in spirit. I listened for José’s name, but mostly got lost in the chilling harmony of the call and response.

“Isabel Morales, doce años de edad”

“Pres-en-te”

“Oscar Romero, priest and martyr”

“Pres-en-te”

When the cold had penetrated all my layers, I wondered how much longer I could stand there with José’s cross before completely being distracted from what we were all doing there. Then we started to move. Slowly, cogs began turning in our machine of thousands, and we processed in a circle, continuing our dirge. As we rotated towards the fence, we walked up and fit our white crosses into the chain links.

La frontera se convirtió en una pared de cruces.