Split Screen

How will We make War Obsolete?

Welcome, come in! 
I hope you enjoy hospitality here, 
find companionship, 
recognize yourself in a line or two,
and, share your thoughts.

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Photo by YaelUri on Pixabay

A bit of backstory: In 1985, my former father-in-law gifted my then-new-husband and me a honeymoon to Israel/Palestine. Bernard, at just 16 years old, left home as the Nazis arrived in Frankfort (1939). He managed to escape Germany and get to America only to return as part of the US Special Forces - serving, among other places, at Omaha Beach. After the war, he stripped the German sounding portion from his name, started a new life, buried the history. He was a man who never spoke German in his own home. Couldn’t imagine there was a God. We learned his story through the Bay Area Holocaust Oral History Project (1990). Bernard told his story first to strangers, thankfully archived. There are stories like his on every side of conflict.

This reminds me of something I read years ago by peace activist, Gene Knudson Hoffman, “An enemy is someone whose story we have not heard.”

Now, for poetry: Here is the first of two poems, “The Photos.” The prompt for this poem based on Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried,” The things they carried were largely determined by necessity…. The author describes young soldiers by the contents of their backpacks as they march into the jungle to fight the Viet Cong.

I wrote “The Photos” from Ireland while reflecting back on that trip nearly 40 years earlier to Israel/Palestine.

The Photos

Whatever you do, don’t forget.
Your Passport.
Like you did on the way to Tel Aviv …

If he puts that packing list next to my suitcase 
one more time,
I just might have to kill him.

Socks, shorts, flip-flops for sightseeing,
long sleeve blouse for Mea Shearim,
a “Lucky Divers” t-shirt if we get to the Red Sea.

Walking shoes to climb Masada,
sunscreen and a brimmed hat,
Tums to offset one-too-many hummus plates.

“Don’t forget your Passport.”
No worries, it’s in the only drawer
of the antique drop-front desk in my office.

Here comes Bernard waving his, yelling, “Let’s go!”
as we rush through the atrium of San Francisco’s domestic terminal
on our way to international check in.

Flash. The drawer. The desk. My office.
The Passport. Safely stowed.
Still in the drawer.

We made it to Israel/Palestine that March in 1985
compliments of Jim’s Passport rescue mission,
overnighting the precious leatherette booklet.

Two whirlwind weeks 
past rabbi graves and strolls down Arab alleyways
ushered into nooks and crannies, Israeli hosts sharing landmarks and neighbors.

The smallest spaces strewn with spiritual compost –  
old men at wooden tables debate over Turkish coffee
and ancient stones stuffed with scribbled prayers stand the test of time.

At the airport as part of our goodbyes, she handed me an envelope,
“They’re pictures of Steve for Marianne. We have to say goodbye.” 
They disappeared into the crowd.

The airport intercom droning in the background 
as we inch our way toward the security checkpoint,
“Do not accept any wrapped packages from anyone.” 
Repeated and repeated.

The envelope was sealed. 
Secure. Wrapped. 
Uneasiness crept in.

There are reasons 20-year-olds 
in the grocery store picking up Gatorade and candy bars 
carry machine guns strapped over their shoulders. 

How on earth could “pictures for his mother”
become a terrorist’s plot?
I tore open the envelope.

Returned the photos to what was left of the ripped cover.
Placed it in the zipper-pocket of my suitcase, 
right there next to the tiny bottle of Holy Water from the River Jordan.

Momentarily disoriented, 
awash with sadness,
leaving behind miles of barren landscape burdened 

by persecution and guerrilla war, 
faces deeply creased by, hearts hardened from
generations of  
fear 
and scatter.

The earth hums something essential here, 
calling to anyone who seeks.

“Next year in Jerusalem!”
לעולם לא עוד    Never again.

painful, 
complicated.

---

After the attacks of October 7th, my family fell into profound strain from not only the atrocities of that day, but also the tearing open, reigniting generations of wounding - the pain-pot boiling over, people as hostages, human shields, as prisoners and pawns in geopolitical gamesmanship.

War and escaping war has impacted every branch of our family tree. And, I know we are not alone. In the meantime, we go to work, children attend school, and life goes on amidst terror, memories of escaping, real-time worries about family still living too close to danger, family members in danger - the active war that’s not here. We all have beloveds on all sides of this conflict. That’s the backdrop to this next poem, “Split Screen.”

Image by hosny salah from Pixabay

Split Screen

No abstraction, no curious riddle, or hummingbird’s love song.
Only hard truth – voiceless images.

I put on a red dress that day – she loaded a pot and blanket onto an ox cart. 

Who believes miracles come in packages labeled tragedy? 
Neatly wrapped up in chaos and starvation, children losing limbs, parents buried alive… 

I made a cappuccino – she didn’t watch the sunrise.

Stumbling amid the dust of crumbling buildings; she coughed up the blood of war.
While she wondered how the world would end, 

I prayed the revelation would begin.

---

No answers. No position statements. Not a time for guesses about whys and wherefores. My heart hurts - I suspect yours does too. I recently read Valarie Kaur’s book, “See No Stranger,” which offers a daily yoga - to see no strangers - only beloveds, neighbors, someone in need of a smile, others I respectfully hold at a distance, those I learn from, the precious ones who will inherit the world we leave behind.

“This is our moment to declare what is obsolete, what can be reformed, and what must be reimagined.”

-Valarie Kaur, See No Stranger

How will we help make war obsolete? What are you re-imagining in this world, in such a time of pain? Love to hear your thoughts.