bring the war home
“You should see it at night, it’s just as bright as daylight,” I found myself saying in full tour guide mode. Everyone in our little group kept staring blankly at the flashing lights and picture screen ads of Time Square as if they’d never seen electricity before. Despite my best intentions, some disdain for the tourist neighborhood must have shown through. My date, Alison, squeezed my hand and gave me a look of sympathetic gratitude for showing her family around the city. I smiled and squeezed back, trying to tell myself that I wouldn’t be embarrassed sitting down at the Hard Rock Cafe for lunch.
We were making our way through the crowds to the restaurant entrance when we heard the commotion behind us. A muffled start came from the other groups of tourists as booming voices barked out orders and stomping boots took control of the street corner. I saw desert camouflage uniforms burst through the crowd, blank sunglasses and weapons heading straight for me. Eight soldiers in full battle gear moved in on us with complete speed and power. They looked enormous. Their voices sounded like deep omnipotent authority. A woman screamed. I think I yelled something I don’t remember. “On the ground! Get on the ground!” I heard. My heart and mind beat in defiance while my body obediently did as the weapons and voices told me. “Keep your head on the pavement! Head down or I put a bullet in it!” With my cheek on the burning pavement I saw Alison thrown to the ground. She winced as a weapon was aimed at her head. “What are you doing to her?!” I yelled as if it were a threat. There is no feeling more helpless. She was looking just as helplessly to her mother, also on the ground under the boot of a soldier who was now taking out zip-cuffs. Her mother gave the same look to her youngest son. “Hands behind your back! Shut up!” Every command was a roar. I complied with everything. My hands bound, they produced a hood and covered my head. As I lay there trying to breathe through the plastic-like material, my adrenaline lessened and the street seemed to quiet as the soldiers bound and hooded us all on the ground just out of reach of each other. Through the blinding white of my hood I heard Alison sobbing quietly. No one struggled anymore, no one yelled. I heard the soldiers working undisturbed and an eerie quiet from the crowd on the street around us. “All right, moving on!” I finally heard and the soldiers marched away counting off, eight men accounted for. We laid there for a moment. I heard someone taking pictures, then felt a comforting hand on my back. “Ok, you can get up.” The cuffs were removed, the hood taken off. I helped Alison up and we hugged.
“What did they do to you! Why did they do that to you!” screamed an obviously intoxicated and disturbed woman in a thick Jersey accent.
“It’s street theatre, Operation: First Casualty,” one of our group told her, handing her a flier explaining that the first casualty of war is always truth. “ivaw.org, Iraq Veterans Against the War. They’re vets and we’re actors. They wanted to demonstrate for people what the war really looks like.”
“Oh my god, oh my god,” she mumbled as she walked off, not looking at all relieved at the explanation.
We repeated the scene all across the city, from Rockefeller Center to Battery Park, down to the Fulton Street Mall and Grand Army Plaza. It was a perfect day, bright sunny, and all the tourist spots thronging with people celebrating the long Memorial Day weekend. I missed most of the crowd reaction due to adrenaline and the hood over my face, but you could feel the shock in the air every time. Despite the fact that the weapons were imaginary and the vets were our friends, I felt a jolt in my heart each time that enormous mass of camouflage and authority came barreling down on me. One man thought it was a recruitment exercise and thanked the vets for showing people the military in its true glory.
“This is a sacrifice for us,” the vets told us the day before during training and rehearsal for the day’s action. “Who we were in Iraq is somebody we don’t want to be anymore. It’s something we wish we could forget. But we are going to put on the uniform, and be those people for one more day if we think it will help end this war.” The looks on the faces of the soldiers as they acted out the scenes was something I’ll never forget. It was authority, but behind that something twisted and scared. I’m sure it wasn’t fear of us, but for what they remembered, and what they were putting themselves through by reliving it.
Toward sunset, we made our way to Grand Army Plaza. No more actions or street demonstrations, just a final memorial for what the vets had been through. They stood in formation at attention, and one by one marched out of rank and stood front and center. Slowly and methodically each soldier unbuttoned his uniform jacket, removed it, and tossed it in a heap in front of their line until they piled high like trash. The glory of the memorial arch stretching above them seemed to stop at their shoulders. If anyone showed pride on their face it was only in defiance. Most just looked weary.
Still marines and soldiers in every action, most of the men marched crisp and straight. But for a few it was a lazy walk, each step no longer bothering with pretenses. I watched one man unbutton his jacket in what looked less like a military ritual and more like someone undressing after returning home from a shameful affair. As he removed it, his eyes and mouth showed only disgust as he tossed it down like throwing away a piece of his own body.
operation: first casualty
