By Erika Meyer
War is inherently absurd.
If you believe, like magic soap man Dr. Bronner, that we are ALL ONE (and I do), then the act of war – the “organized, armed, and, often, a prolonged conflict that is carried on between states, nations, or other parties typified by extreme aggression, social disruption, and usually high mortality” [1]) – is equivalent to the act of cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face.
Wars are instigated by powerful men who will never be found anywhere near the front lines. They use their influence to manipulate fear, incite conflict, and manufacture consent. They convince citizens to fight for “freedom” and for a “way of life”. They never admit to their real motives: dominance, power, control. Once undertaken, the state of war inevitably lasts longer than anyone expects, and inflicts more damage than anyone can imagine. These effects go on for generations, sometimes manifesting in new wars. No one escapes unharmed.
I was born before, after, and during wartime. As an American, I’m accustomed to feeling detached from the wars which are woven into the fabric of where I live and who I am. I was born on San Juan Island, Washington in March 1968 – two weeks after the My Lai Massacre and one week before the assassination of civil rights activist Martin Luther King. Poet, activist, and founding Fug, Ed Sanders, later wrote of that time in 1997 Black Sparrow Press-published 1968: A History in Verse.
A farmer raised his hands to show no weapon. They murdered him with a machine gun.
(continues overleaf)