Whose soldiers are they?

An Iraqi Teach-In, held in sentiment of the fourth anniversary of the start of America’s invasive war on Iraq (understatement of the year), featured a film titled The Ground Truth. It plunged into the lives of the American soldiers who trade their soul for the country, and the experience and subsequent treatment they are subjected to because of it. I spent just over an hour of my evening watching the film. I spent the rest toiling over the disturbances it caused within me.

A standard saying in team atmospheres, where a high aim is set, is to keep your eye on the goal, cleverly coaxing the player to never lose focus. The majority of the soldiers featured, and presumably that of those involved, thought they were in Iraq to either avenge 9/11, or protect against another like occurrence. They equate the collapse of the Twin Towers with the innocent civilian faces they see before them on streets, and repress any sense of humility and remorse as they take orders and pull the trigger. After all, a terrorist just might be hiding among those women and children.

These soldiers are taught that just because someone is wearing a Burka or looks Arab, they are the enemy. And in war they are fighting, there is some credit for such a caution, as their enemy is often dressed as a civilian. But there is no excuse for sacrificing the lives of people who happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time: in an American’s way. Bush says we are in Iraq to free the oppressed. But if we kill them all first, who is left to free, and will there be any spirit left to rebuild the demolition and devastation America has caused?

When these soldiers who have followed orders and ruined innocent lives return home, they expect to find what was promised to them—assistance in re-establishing their lives and re-entering society. As the film said, an old saying goes, “A great soldier will made a terrible citizen.” Well, what perfect sense that makes. What killing machine can assimilate without obstacle? The film claims that bullets and bombs cause the most prevalent war injuries. Second is post-traumatic stress disorder, followed by a third of illness. PTSD is plentiful in veterans, and the government thinks assimilation is key. Throwing them back in the mix won’t solve the trauma, thought, and has resulted in severe effects—from ruined relationships to suicide.

If they aren’t killed in Iraq, then their soul filtered out and left in the shambled mess. These soldiers deserve to know what they are signing, what those enlistment officers really ought to tell them, and what their purpose for war truly is. They should know why they strap on a belt of ammunition, and why they shot the faces they do. These soldiers are people—our people—and need to be treated as such. Come on, America: demand we take care of our troops.

Pow Wow of LOVE

How appropriate--just in time for Valentine's Day (over-priced Hallmark holiday that strips lovers of any need for creative and spontaneous romance). MSU just hosted their annual Pow Wow of Love, where members of the East Lansing community and beyond are invited to observe the and urged to understand the culture of our America's real founders.

As Native American men, women and children alike danced about to different tempos (which corresponded to their style of dress) clothed in beautiful regalia, it was difficult to ignore the connotations our society has pasted all over their image. These people have been misunderstood for years and years--I think a t-shirt I saw summed up just how long. The shirt featured a clan of Native American men standing guard, looking semi-protective, with words underneath reading, "Fighting terrorism since 1492".

We live in a world of misrepresentation, naivete, apathy and selfishness. This saddens me.

Babel: If communication were only our only woe

Brad Pitt’s acting and the Tower of Babel legend lit up the screen in Wells Hall, MSU. Knowing nothing of how these two things would intertwine themselves, I sat attentively, waiting to be entertained. Some movies are entertainers. This one was a thinker.

On the outside, I saw four interlaced stories playing out. Implicitly, I heard social, political and cultural messages ringing through my ears. An Asian family, an American family, a Moroccan family, a Mexican family: they are all torn and tormented directly socially by family, indirectly internationally and domestically by globalization, capitalism, and ethnocentrism. An American screams terrorist, and an innocent Moroccan is beaten for answers. An elder Mexican woman tries crossing the border to get back to work, and she’s assumed an illegal immigrant, and therefore a threat. An Asian young girl can’t understand the words directed toward her, and suffers feeling of abandonment and depression. A Moroccan family falls victim to the connotations and actions aroused by the arbitrary term “terrorist”.

Films like this challenge one to think about what is really happening outside of the bubbled life surrounding oneself daily. Individuality is so stressed by Western culture that it is often interpreted to selfishness and exclusiveness. In reality, no individual act is preformed exclusive of the community. The effects of any community act are not restricted to that community, but rippled throughout those surrounding until reaching national level. National acts are never isolated incidents. Perhaps this should be kept in mind the next time a shirt is bought, a bill is voted on, and a war is declared.

An Icy Dip

Sigh.

How is it that day by day passes me by without my scrounging up the time to document in some public domain the events and happenings that comprise this crazed life of mine?

This one couldn't go without.

Snowmobiling is a past time of mine that bubbles with memories of rosy cheeks, hot cocoa in a helmet-filled bar, and endless trails, sometimes more bumpy than my body prefers to endure. Unfortunately, this crazed collegiate life I lead hasn't allowed me to hit the trails in two years--yes, I know. It's a cardinal sin of snowmobiling loyalty.

In an earnest attempt to redeem myself as a true snowmobiler, I anxiously told Dad to tell me as soon as he was going up to the cabin, and I meet him for some riding. The call came, and I was more than ready. Roomie Emmy hadn't ever been snowmobiling before, so I offered her up this wonderful opportunity. Being the adventure seeker that I so lovingly know her to be, she obliged. And off we went, warm clothes and open minds intact, setting out for an overnight adventure.

Upon arrival, I learned that Dad had prepared a snowmobile for each of us--I initially thought Emily and I would be sharing, and she'd only have to drive half the time. Emily was up for the challenge, though, and excited to be flying solo.

Before long, we found ourselves stuck in swamp filled with three feet of half water, half muck. The way that this happened was that Dad led us onto what he thought was a fluffy field of snow, but what turned out to be a something similar to Shrek's home. Once I realized that Emily and her snowmobile weren't going to sink any deeper, and I wasn't about to loose one of the absolute favorite people in this world, my heart stopped threatening to beat out of my chest and I was able to make effective use of myself and jump in the water and help. No use. Soon, we were off on the two remaining sleds, bound for the wood-burning stove of home.

Hours later, we returned to that same spot with the recruited help of two family members and began the tedious process of retrieving the lost sled. Oy. Three hours and two more snowmobile-dunks later, we were all cold, wet, sore and ready for bed.

Will Emily every snowmobile again? I hope so. Will Dad ever venture onto unfrozen ice again? I certainly hope not. Only time will tell. All I know, is I'm thanking God he was there next to us this time.

What do diamonds really cost?

I just got out of the movies with Emily. We saw Blood Diamond, with Leonardo Dicaprio and Jennifer Connelly. Wow… true, dramatic, and scary. Now I have a new perspective on diamonds.

When I was in New York City with Collin, just before Christmas, we had an extended conversation about blood diamonds, the diamond industry, and the diamond-engagement ring tradition of the USA.

The rich resources of Africa have been exploited and torn away from their rightful landowners for decades… gold, oil, rubber, and now diamonds. And many native inhabitants have never even seen a diamond. Imagine that. Civil war, tribal war, the “new” war—they’ve decimated Africa, turning it into a land of constant war. It appears to be a Godless mess. But I know God lurks in hearts, just waiting to be explored.

The country has been ruined. As the scenery is panned in this telling film, one sees rickety cities covered with split blood, and deserted villages littered with limbs and broken hearts. This land is toxic. It is toxic in its violence, its bloodshed, and its resource exploitation. It is not that one of these is an environmental catastrophe; all of these are environmental catastrophes.

Habitats are ruined. People are left homeless. Even abandoned trails are decorated with handing dead bodies and ammunition guts.

The “Kimberly Process” is some sort of custom set in place to stop jewelers from selling conflict diamonds. But its success cannot be guaranteed. There are ways that smugglers can get around this protective practice, and ways that diamonds can be dealt without knowing their origins. Diamonds can be sold with it being said they were mined in Liberia, when really they are from Sierra Leone, but a customs personal was paid off to say otherwise.

I think it goes without saying that some practice needs to be put into reality and regulated to mend this situation. Until such is done, I don’t know how I can buy a diamond in good conscience.

Ending the semester... alive.

Ok. It's over.

No more sleepless nights (due to caffeine and procrastination overdose), high-pressure headaches, showerless days, and all-night cramming sessions. Atleast not 'till next semester.

Because it's CHRISTMAS (er... "holiday" for all those politically-correct-term seekers) break. And about time.

This puts me down another 17 credits 'till that day that I will finally find myself swankingly making my way across a stage in a cap and gown... a day that awaits me after another 2 semesters of school, one summer of Europe traversing, and one semester of randomness--perhaps an internship. As that day draws nearer, I find myself getting edgier and edgier about what exactly it is that I'm going to do for the rest of my life. Then again, I've got plently of time to think about that, right?

Sure I do. Perhaps this is all squandering my free-floating thoughts right now because I am in Nebraska to witness a fellow college student take his first post-undergrad steps. And this just makes me realize how close the rest of my life really is. Hmmm.

Suggestions welcome.

Me... on a bar crawl?

Yes... the day arrived where I was finally able to legally step into a bar and consume an alcoholic beverage whenever I see fit. Unfortunately, my schedule disagrees. Hence, as of last night at 5pm, I'd been to only one bar in East Lansing since those lovely early hours of October 22, when I became legal. A little life reflection showed me that I need to get out more, and I committed myself to a bar crawl put on by Mortar Board, a senior class honor society (a little ironic... I know). I invested in my authentic Mortar Board bar crawl tee two weeks in advance, therefore dis-enabling me from backing out at the last second because I've just got too much to do, which is usually the case when it comes to me and heading out for a night. And so, I went.

Here I am, 24 hours later, $25 poorer, and what do I have to show for it? A more thorough acquaintance with the East Lansing bar scene, a bunch of new friends I may or may not ever see again, and best of all, one more outrageous memory racked up and filed under MSU: the undergrad years. And I'm happy with that. Really, I am.

Because, to be cliche, we all need to stop and smell the roses... otherwise, one day, I'll open my eyes one morning as a college graduate with all the pride that comes along side such an accomplishment, but without the adorning memories that must compliment such a feat. Everything we do must have a purpose. Sometimes that purpose is more materialistic than we'd like to admit. But by keeping underlying intangible purposes to life that in turn catalyze all other aspects of existence, then I feel it's possible to achieve happiness by keeping such purposes as a guide. Yes, this is quite theological and ideological, and perhaps confusing in its abstract nature, but to me it seems to make sense.

My purposes, or the things most important to me, are my relationships--both with God and mortals, both lasting and spontaneous--, the footprints I leave through my experiences. While I am here, in this world, consuming and depleting resources, I need to uphold my part, and positively affect those that I have the opportunity to do so to. Each experience is an opportunity to affect someone, to get to know yourself better, to get to know the world around you better, and to live life a little more fully. Each experience offers a chance to develop oneself further, enabling you to leave better and more frequent footprints. And if that means enjoying culture and life with new friends in a bar, then so be it.

(I think I just rationalized my bar crawl as an enriching experience... what do you think?)