American Beauty – II
Dear Mr President,
Stepping out onto the tarmac of the most vibrant city on the east coast of your country, I made my way almost immediately to see my publisher, a courageous man who has decided to take on a rather different take on the involvement of your government in war. According to this young risk-taker, the recent flurry of literary and cinematic activity being crafted out of the ‘war on terror’ needed to include this perspective as well — that of the young men and women who leave the shining shores of their country to fight a war they have lost even before they fire the first shot or drop the first bomb. That is what my book is about, Sir, about the absolute madness of war, about there being no victors, only victims. For a small, independent publishing house to believe in this book was significant for several reasons, Mr President: that there is always space in America for dissent, that creativity has found a way to subvert the project of official manipulation, and that perhaps the voice of the unheard may now be heard by those brave enough to hold up a mirror and stare into the eyes of those who have been driven mad by war.
And that, Sir, is American Beauty — the willingness of many of your citizens to listen, to shut out the clamour of a manipulated and manipulative media, to concentrate on that faint melody which the others are singing, even as they struggle to survive so many other wars: against hunger, against violence, against neglect, against unnecessary hatred. There is so much beauty in your country, Sir – which is why so many flock to your shores, the desperate and the distressed as well as the devious and devout, “Saint and Stranger”, paying obeisance to God and his Capitol. But besides this, Mr President, is the physical beauty of much of your country, the rolling hills of the country side, the changing colours of the leaves, church steeples rising silently into pristine skies.
It is so quiet here, Mr President, in this little town of Middletown Springs, Vermont, where I have come to attend a memorial service of one of your sons, a certain Mr Doyle, a man who built exquisite Queen Anne houses all by himself, who understood and restored magnificent machines which made music, and who died having celebrated life in all its fullness. I did not know this man, Sir, but I went along anyway, accompanying a dear friend who has taught me so much about fighting for women, about raising my voice against injustice. Let me introduce you to this beautiful American, Sir: she is Jane O’Reilly, daughter of an Irish family, seven generations of which have attended Harvard University. Her ancestors came straight off the boat, so to speak.
In the early 17th century, the O’Reilly’s may not have anticipated that times ahead would be fraught with peril: fear of the unknown, of the native tribes who, “ravaged by English borne diseases, deprived of their lands in language and interpretations they little understood, came to believe that war was not among the alternatives, but the only one. While the war waged by the Metacomet Indians (later to include Nipmuck and Narragansett Indians) was savage and brutal, it can also be said that it was no more so than the brutalities inflicted by the white man”.
Sir, I quote the history of the conquest of native lands from The Colonial Gazette: “In May of 1635 the camp of some five hundred men, women and children of the Pequout tribe near New London, Connecticut was attacked by Captain John Mason; “We must burn them,” declared Captain Mason. “The vast volume of flame…the wail of women and children as they writhed in the flames formed a contrast awful and sublime with the quiet glories of the peaceful May morning that was just then breaking over the woods and the ocean.”
It was a peaceful July morning when I drove through the lush forests of Massachusetts, making my way to the train station at Whitehall. In the shadows, Sir, I saw them, the children as they burned, clinging to their mother’s bosoms.
Published in The Express Tribune, July 21st, 2010.
Stepping out onto the tarmac of the most vibrant city on the east coast of your country, I made my way almost immediately to see my publisher, a courageous man who has decided to take on a rather different take on the involvement of your government in war. According to this young risk-taker, the recent flurry of literary and cinematic activity being crafted out of the ‘war on terror’ needed to include this perspective as well — that of the young men and women who leave the shining shores of their country to fight a war they have lost even before they fire the first shot or drop the first bomb. That is what my book is about, Sir, about the absolute madness of war, about there being no victors, only victims. For a small, independent publishing house to believe in this book was significant for several reasons, Mr President: that there is always space in America for dissent, that creativity has found a way to subvert the project of official manipulation, and that perhaps the voice of the unheard may now be heard by those brave enough to hold up a mirror and stare into the eyes of those who have been driven mad by war.
And that, Sir, is American Beauty — the willingness of many of your citizens to listen, to shut out the clamour of a manipulated and manipulative media, to concentrate on that faint melody which the others are singing, even as they struggle to survive so many other wars: against hunger, against violence, against neglect, against unnecessary hatred. There is so much beauty in your country, Sir – which is why so many flock to your shores, the desperate and the distressed as well as the devious and devout, “Saint and Stranger”, paying obeisance to God and his Capitol. But besides this, Mr President, is the physical beauty of much of your country, the rolling hills of the country side, the changing colours of the leaves, church steeples rising silently into pristine skies.
It is so quiet here, Mr President, in this little town of Middletown Springs, Vermont, where I have come to attend a memorial service of one of your sons, a certain Mr Doyle, a man who built exquisite Queen Anne houses all by himself, who understood and restored magnificent machines which made music, and who died having celebrated life in all its fullness. I did not know this man, Sir, but I went along anyway, accompanying a dear friend who has taught me so much about fighting for women, about raising my voice against injustice. Let me introduce you to this beautiful American, Sir: she is Jane O’Reilly, daughter of an Irish family, seven generations of which have attended Harvard University. Her ancestors came straight off the boat, so to speak.
In the early 17th century, the O’Reilly’s may not have anticipated that times ahead would be fraught with peril: fear of the unknown, of the native tribes who, “ravaged by English borne diseases, deprived of their lands in language and interpretations they little understood, came to believe that war was not among the alternatives, but the only one. While the war waged by the Metacomet Indians (later to include Nipmuck and Narragansett Indians) was savage and brutal, it can also be said that it was no more so than the brutalities inflicted by the white man”.
Sir, I quote the history of the conquest of native lands from The Colonial Gazette: “In May of 1635 the camp of some five hundred men, women and children of the Pequout tribe near New London, Connecticut was attacked by Captain John Mason; “We must burn them,” declared Captain Mason. “The vast volume of flame…the wail of women and children as they writhed in the flames formed a contrast awful and sublime with the quiet glories of the peaceful May morning that was just then breaking over the woods and the ocean.”
It was a peaceful July morning when I drove through the lush forests of Massachusetts, making my way to the train station at Whitehall. In the shadows, Sir, I saw them, the children as they burned, clinging to their mother’s bosoms.
Published in The Express Tribune, July 21st, 2010.