Through the Darkest of Nights: Testament XXXV

Every few days over the next several months I will be posting installments of a novel about life, death, war and politics in America since 9/11.  Through the Darkest of Nights is a story of hope, reflection, determination, and redemption.  It is a testament to the progressive values we all believe in, have always defended, and always will defend no matter how long this darkness lasts.  But most of all, it is a search for identity and meaning in an empty world.

Naked and alone we came into exile.  In her dark womb, we did not know our mother’s face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth. Which of us has known his brother?  Which of us has looked into his father’s heart?  Which of us has not remained prison-pent?  Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?      ~Thomas Wolfe

All installments are available for reading here on Docudharma’s Series page, and also here on Docudharma’s Fiction Page, where refuge from politicians, blogging overload, and one BushCo outrage after another can always be found.

    “I need to see your ID’s.”

    “No.  You don’t need to see our ID’s.”  The contempt in Shannon’s voice was as cold as the December wind whipping across the Ellipse.  “We’ve gone through the security screening like everyone else here, so–”

    “You can either show me your ID’s or you can leave.”

    I took my cell phone out of my jacket pocket.  “You like ultimatums?  Here’s one for you.  You can either quit harassing us, or you can see that Bush bootlicker face of yours all over YouTube tomorrow.  Take your pick.”  

    Silence.

    He walked away, but I had a feeling he’d be back.  A few minutes later he was, with two Secret Servicemen. They showed us their credentials and escorted us off the Ellipse.   I videoed the whole thing, when people see guards of a war criminal tossing two peace activists out of the Christmas Pageant of Peace, the needle of the irony meter on YouTube is going to peg past all known limits and spin on into infinity.  

    They use technology to take power from us.  

    We’ll use technology to take it back.

    We were banished to the far side of Constitution Avenue, where the older one jabbed an imperious finger in our faces, “if you come back to the Ellipse, we’ll detain you for questioning.”  

    “You want to question me?  Go ahead.”  Shannon’s eyes blazed.  “I’ve got more answers than you’ve got questions.  I’m an American citizen, I’m standing here on Constitution Avenue and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be bullied by you or the Constitution burning criminals you work for.  If you want to point your finger at someone, point it at yourself.   Detain yourself for questioning.  You can start off by asking yourself how many more times you’re going to endorse that government paycheck you get before you start noticing all the blood on it.”

    “Don’t press your luck, Miss Walker.”

    “Well . . . King Herod’s palace guard knows who I am.  Fine.  I know who you are too, and I know what you’re doing.  You’re abusing your authority, Frank Howatt, you’re harassing American citizens because some Bush White House hack told you to.”

   “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

   “You aren’t going to have a job when a million people see this on YouTube.”

    Silence again.

    Not quite as imperious as he used to be, Frank took his attitude, his finger, and his sidekick back to the Ellipse, where the two-thousand people who made it through the security screening and aren’t dangerous peace activists are being serenaded by The Singing Angels of Cleveland.

    Shannon listened to them mangle Silent Night beyond all recognition.  “I don’t know if they’re angels or not, but I know one thing, Jericho . . . they can’t sing worth a damn.”  

    “I’ve heard worse.”

    “That’s hard to believe . . .”

    “Have you ever heard Trent Lott, Larry Craig, John Ashcroft and Jim Jeffords sing Let the Eagle Soar?”

    “Ugh.  I saw that in Fahrenheit 9/11.”

    “So we agree that the Singing Senators are worse than The Singing Angels of Cleveland?”

    “Yes we do.”

    Here on Constitution Avenue, those of us who weren’t deemed worthy enough to attend King Herod’s Pageant of Peace exchanged comments regarding Nazi influences on Let the Eagle Soar as we waited for the sacrificial tree to be lit up so we could all go home.

    I looked at the 40-foot-high Colorado blue spruce that was chopped down, hauled here to Washington, propped up on the Ellipse like a pagan trophy, and defaced with 25,000 light bulbs.  It must have been beautiful out there in the foothills of the Rockies, but it’s not beautiful here, it’s been turned into a garish spectacle of consumer America X-Mas.  It’s dying, but it’ll live long enough to be the National Christmas Tree for a few weeks before being taken down and carted off to a landfill somewhere.

    Commotion on the Ellipse revealed that King Herod had finally arrived, and after a welcoming cheer from his screened subjects, his amplified voice drifted across Constitution Avenue . . .

     Laura and I are pleased to welcome you to the Christmas Pageant of Peace. Christmas is a season of glad tidings, and a time when our thoughts turn to the source of joy and hope born in a humble manger 2000 years ago.

    The source of grief, despair and bad tidings who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth 60 years ago paused for a moment so his piety could suitably impress everyone, then kept reading the speech one of his palace scribes wrote for him . . .

    We come together to celebrate a simple and inspiring story.  It’s a story of a miraculous birth in a humble place. It is a story of a single life that changed the world-and continues to change hearts. And for two millennia, this story has carried the message that God is with us and He offers His love to every man, woman and child.

    Yes.  Jesus of Nazareth carried that message, he told us to love one another, even our enemies.  He didn’t tell us to torture them in Abu Ghraib.  He didn’t tell us to lock them up in the cages of Guantanamo.  He didn’t say blessed are the warmongers, he said blessed are the peacemakers.  He wouldn’t be attending your “Pageant of Peace”, you killer, he’d be standing here on Constitution Avenue with seekers of peace like us.  

    During the Christmas season we seek to reflect God’s love in our lives. Millions of Americans will celebrate at home in fellowship with friends and family. Millions will reach out with a compassionate hand to help brothers and sisters in need. And all will give thanks to the bonds of love and affection that bring fulfillment to our lives and the hope of peace around the world. At this time of year, we give thanks for the brave men and women in uniform who are serving our nation. Many of those who have answered the call of duty will spend this Christmas season far from home and separated from family.

    They answered the call of duty, you betrayed them for it, and 3,000 of them are spending this Christmas season in cemeteries.  Thousands of others are spending it broken, forgotten and suicidal in VA hospitals.  The rest of them are guarding the oilfields the generals of your war machine conquered.

    We honor their sacrifice. We are proud of their service and that of their families. We will keep them close to our hearts and in our prayers.

    You have no idea what honor is.  You have no idea what sacrifice is.  You have no heart, no morality, no soul. And don’t babble on about prayer, you hypocrite, the only prayers you offer are to that god of power you worship every waking minute of your sordid life.

    Bush flipped a switch, 25,000 light bulbs glared to life, and the crowd gathered around the dying blue spruce from the high country of Colorado cheered. Paganism is alive and well on the Ellipse.  Christianity, not so much. Not here or anywhere else in this city of Judases.

    A couple weeks from now, at midnight on Christmas Eve, bells will ring across America to celebrate the birth of Jesus of Nazareth and his life of activism and compassion.   But for Americans of compassion who speak out for peace and brotherhood as he did, there won’t be much to celebrate.  For us, those bells will not be ringing in celebration, they’ll be tolling in grief for a land broken by deceit and hypocrisy, lost in the darkness of lies that never end, and shamed by the mendacity, corruption, and betrayal of a criminal president and his criminal party.

    Beyond the walls of King Herod’s capital, the millions who gather in megachurches to worship their own greed don’t seem to recall that the Prince of Peace lived among the poor and the powerless, that he condemned the pursuit of wealth.   George Walker Bush, the slanderer of liberal idealists, the exploiter of religion, the purveyor of greed, the torturer of Abu Ghraib, the executioner from Texas didn’t mention that for defying the corrupting power of established religion, for defending the weak and exploited, for condemning the greed of the wealthy, for speaking truth to power, Jesus was slandered, arrested, tortured, and executed.

    No.  George Walker Bush didn’t mention that.

    Since the execution of the Prince of Peace 2,000 years ago, other activists have known they would suffer the same fate if they dared speak truth to power. But they spoke truth to power anyway.  In every era of humanity’s long and bloody history, in every land where oppression crushed the human spirit and fear silenced entire societies, a few brave souls managed to overcome their fear and summoned the courage to take a stand, alone if necessary, for human dignity and freedom.  They knew human dignity and freedom are worth taking a stand for.  

    Every time.  

    Bruce Springsteen’s Chimes of Freedom is playing on someone’s iPod.  I listened to that anthem for justice and wondered if midnight’s broken tolling will ever end.  It hasn’t yet.  The tolling goes on and on, and the walls are still tightening.  But that hypnotic splattered mist the corporate media calls journalism can no longer conceal the political debauchery that never ends in this Sodom on the Potomac.

    Shannon and I are enduring this long midnight of suffering, we’re haunted by the sound of funeral bells that never stop tolling.   Despite the activism of Americans like us, those bells are still tolling in grief for the victims of injustice.  They’re still tolling for the rebels in Chechnya . . . for the raked victims of globalization . . . for the luckless, abandoned, forsaken of New Orleans.  They’re still tolling for the searching whistleblowers on their speechless, seeking trail . . . for lonesome gay and lesbian lovers with too personal a tale . . . for each unharmful gentle soul locked inside a CIA jail.  

    They’re still tolling for tasered peace activists whose strength is not to fight . . . for all the Iraqi refugees on their unarmed road of flight . . . for each and every underdog soldier in the dark East Timor night.   They’re still tolling for Darfur outcasts, burning constantly at stake . . . for the children of Afghanistan whose hearts will ever break, for the aching victims of PTSD, whose wounds cannot be nursed . . . for the countless, confused, accused, misused strung out ones and worse . . . for every sobbing victim in the whole wide universe.    

    Not much has changed in thousands of years.  Oppression is still oppression.  Tyranny is still tyranny.  Wars of conquest are still wars of conquest.   The victims just have different names.  But change is coming, it’s coming, and the corporate masters of this reawakening democracy will not be able to stop it.  Their Republican hacks have lost control of Congress, their victims are fighting back, at long last, they’re fighting back.

    Americans fighting back on progressive websites have been in the front lines, we’re still in the front lines, we’ve been fighting back between sundown’s finish and midnight’s broken toll, it’s long past midnight and we’re still fighting back, we’re going to keep fighting back until this darkest of nights is over.