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 The
VigilanceVoice
Nov. 28,
Wednesday--Ground Zero Plus 78
PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN—
EVEN THOUGH IT WAS EMBARRASSING
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Sometimes it’s hard to be
proud you’re an American. It was that way for me today. I was
embarrassingly proud.
It
happened in Lower Manhattan near Ground Zero. I was on a hunt
for an “ice pad” to keep the bottom of my laptop cool so it didn’t burn into
my knees while I was pounding away on a park bench. It’s that time of
year in New York, when the leaves are falling and park benches are more
available because it gets colder. Guys like me like empty park
benches.
I was
looking for the ice pad at J&R Computers, located on Park Row, which faces
Broadway where a make-shift memorial has grown since the tragedy of
September 11. Banners, flags, pictures and memorabilia from
throughout the world hang on the fence of the Trinity Church that serves as
the Rescue Worker Relief Station plus a solemn sanctuary to remember those
who died just a few blocks away.
Countless
thousands of people stop by each day -- a sort of World Trade Center Vietnam
Wall -- to sign burlap sheets hanging off the fence. The site is tended by volunteers
who offer pens to anyone who wishes to write their feelings or express their
thoughts.
Candles
flicker vigilantly next to pictures of loved ones who were buried in the
rubble of Nine Eleven. Artifacts such as hats, fireman masks, police
emblems and pictures of citizens caught in the disaster on the Second
Tuesday of September dot the block-long cenotaph—reminding all of a day no
one will quickly forget.
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I
decided
to
take
some
pictures
with
my
digital
camera
of
the
different
items
sent
from
all
over
the
world
as
gestures
of
sympathy
and
support.
I
worked
my
way
between
the
close-knit
groups
of
people
pausing
to
examine
the
display
of
messages,
which
ranged
from
kindergarten
classes
to
nations
of
families
in
lands
far
away.
As
I
knelt
to
take
some
photos
of
various
vigil
candles,
a
teary
eyed
young
woman
stopped
and
placed
a
picture
of
someone
she
loved
behind
a
candle.
Her
lips
moved
silently
for
the
handsome
young
man
pictured
on
the
memorial
card.
When
she
left,
I
took
a
picture
to
remember
him--as
she
did—as
a
hero
of
September
11th.
As
I
finished
the
picture
taking,
I
heard
a
loud
Voice
behind
me
cursing
and
swearing.
I
looked
up.
A
wiry-haired
man
was
screaming
and
cursing
at
the
bystanders.
He
spewed
out
words
of
hate
and
disgust
for
those
standing
at
the
“September
11th
Memorial
Wall.”
His
Voice
boomed
through
the
sanctuary’s
silence,
terrorizing
it,
defacing
it
with
vulgar
invectives
and
disparaging
remarks
about
those
who
died,
and
how
America
was
a
bully,
and
those
who
died
deserved
to
die.
Broadway
is
a
public
street,
open
to
anyone
wishing
to
pass
by.
The
shouting,
cursing
man
was
intoxicated,
but
his
words
were
sober,
full
of
hate
and
bile.
He
spoke
in
an
accent
that
might
have
been
Hispanic,
but
perhaps
not.
He
berated
all
the
dead,
and
spat
angry
words
denouncing
America
as
a
predator,
stalking
smaller
countries
and
using
its
power
and
might
to
intimidate
them
for
greed.
He
cursed
a
group
of
women
standing
in
the
solemnly
public
sanctuary,
picking
on
one
in
particular
who
made
the
error
of
speaking
back.
He
ranted
that
America
was
an
oppressor,
and
deserved
everything
it
got.
He
yelled
out
he
hoped
it
would
happen
again,
and
spun
about,
eyes
enraged,
challenging
anyone
within
spitting
distance
with
his
anger,
his
hatred,
his
vehemence.
His
Voice
boomed
up
and
down
the
street,
as
people
remained
vigilant,
saying
nothing,
standing
quietly
and
pretending
he
didn’t
exist,
tolerating
his
desecration
of
the
sanctuary.
New
York
City
is
famous
for
its
“crazies,”
and
this
particular
person
had
the
market
on
insanity
at
the
moment.
I
watched
the
people
around
the
memorial
remain
calm,
undisturbed
by
his
outbursts,
his
threatening
accusations.
They
continued
to
remain
in
a
state
of
composure,
silent,
somber,
as
though
he
were
not
real,
an
illusion.
As
I
viewed
the
people
paying
their
respects
versus
the
wild
man
cursing
and
raging
about
America
being
a
“monster,”
a
surge
of
pride
ran
through
me.
This
was
America
at
its
finest--
two
opposites…one
berating
the
dead
and
fallen
and
everyone
honoring
them,
and
the
other
side
of
the
spectrum
quietly
allowing
his
vehemence
to
be
issued
without
retaliation.
If
there
ever
was
a
Terrorist
Of
The
Sanctuary,
this
man’s
vulgarity
and
violent
statements
made
him
the
Prime
Suspect.
But no one arrested him. No one punched him in the mouth to stop him
from shouting out his hate and anger in a sanctuary of sadness and honor.
As he cursed the dead, the living and the world at large, no one hauled him
off as they might in another country not created on the principle of equal
rights, founded in free speech and individual rights opposite of the “norm,”
the “mean,” the “median.” No one came with clubs to beat him.
The citizens didn’t grab him, hold him down, and cut out his tongue.
Everyone
tolerated him—allowed him the right to bark his offensive words, to make
obscene gestures, to desecrate what others were honoring.
Instead
of feeling a sense of moral indignation, I saw the man’s outrage as a
powerful salute and tribute to the victims of Nine Eleven. His
Terrorism was not met with Terrorism. His outrage was not met with
equal and opposite Newtonian outrage. His right to protest the
sanctuary was as great as the right to honor the victims of Nine Eleven.
This “right of dissent” made me proud to be an American.
America
has always prided herself on the foundations of Free Speech, and on the
individual rights of any citizen to speak his or her mind, however small or
grotesque that Voice might be.
The
obscene statements the man made about the victims of Nine Eleven, reinforced
the power of Freedom. It reminded me we do not fight Terrorism with
Terrorism. We fight it with tolerance, respect, and the principle of
“justice for all.” The mass murderer has “rights” under American
justice. He has rights to a fair trail, to appeal. The judges of
Democracy and Freedom on Broadway in Lower Manhattan listened to his
evidence, but did not indict him. They did not prosecute him on the
spot for voicing his hatred, his anger, his vehemence against America and
all she stood for.
This
madman
had
the
same
equal
protection
of
the
red-white-and
blue
as
the
most
innocent
child—and
that’s
what
made
me
proud.
I
was
proud
of
the
dignity
of
the
onlookers
who
did
not
lower
themselves
to
Terrorist
tactics
and
assault
the
man,
or
immediately
call
for
a
military
tribunal
behind
closed
doors.
I
couldn’t
think
of
too
many
countries
where
a
“madman”
could
urinate
on
the
bodies
of
heroes
and
innocent
victims
and
not
be
punished
for
such
an
act
of
sacrilege.
Yet
that’s
what
happened.
People
paid
the
man
no
heed,
except
for
his
right
to
scream
and
wail
and
curse.
They
let
him
vent
his
rage
on
the
same
equal
footing
they
were
offering
their
condolences,
their
thoughts,
their
pity
and
sorrow.
“Justice
For
All,”
I
thought,
can
exist
even
a
man’s
actions
seemed
totally
unjust,
unfair,
unworthy.
Democracy’s
“rights”
were
more
important
than
his
offense.
As
the
man
wandered
off,
still
shouting
his
drunken,
violent
words,
I
thought
about
the
sacrifice
of
those
thousands
who
died
in
the
World
Trade
Center
attack.
I
saw
them
as
Sentinels
of
Vigilance,
reminding
us
all
to
not
let
fear,
or
intimidation
or
complacency
creep
into
our
lives
and
destroy
the
courage,
conviction
and
action
that
has
made
America
the
world’s
model
of
freedom
and
democracy.
I
imagined
them
nodding
their
approval
at
the
courage
of
the
bystanders
who
allowed
the
foul
breath
of
a
dissenter
to
desecrate
their
shrine
without
retaliation.
I
saw
the
Sentinels
of
Vigilance
approving
the
conviction
the
bystanders
showed
by
standing
firm,
not
intimidated
by
the
man’s
words
or
actions.
And
finally,
I
realized
the
action
the
bystanders
took
to
thwart
the
dissenter
was
by
taking
no
Action.
Restraint
became
their
power.
Then
I
thought
about
a
child
being
present
and
witnessing
the
scene.
I
wondered
how
a
parent
might
explain
to
the
child
seeing
a
grown
man
spew
venom
on
the
gravesite
of
thousands
without
being
strung
up
or
lashed
or
beaten
for
his
assault
on
their
sacred
memories.
How
great
it
would
be,
I
thought,
if
that
parent
explained
to
a
child
not
“how
we
were
killing
our
enemies,”
but
rather
how
we
“stood
above
our
enemies,”
about
how
we
preserved
the
values
of
America
by
standing
up
for
the
principles
of
Freedom
and
the
Constitutionality
of
an
individual’s
right
to
express
himself
or
herself—and
that
is
what
makes
America
different
from
Terrorist
Nations,
where
tolerance
rather
than
hate,
and
acceptance
rather
than
bigotry,
rules.
I
figured
that
conversation
might
be
refreshing
for
a
child
who
has
been
inundated
with
news
about
America’s
Revenge.
I
thought
it
might
be
a
nice
balance
to
the
idea
that
“Justice
For
All”
meant
something
more
than
killing
bin
Laden.
Or,
holding
military
tribunals.
Or,
presupposing
that
once
we
had
“killed
the
terrorists”
we
would
be
free
from
terrorism.
As
those
thoughts
ran
through
my
mind
I
looked
at
the
site
of
destruction
where
the
World
Trade
Center
once
stood.
Faint
plumes
of
smoke
still
rose
from
the
bowels
of
the
disaster.
I
could
see
the
Angels
of
Vigilance
fluttering
above
the
site.
They
were
as
proud
as
I
was
to
be
an
American—proud
that
Democracy
had
not
died
in
the
disaster—proud
the
Constitution
had
not
lost
its
power
to
preserve
a
person’s
individual
rights
to
berate
a
sanctuary
on
Broadway
in
New
York
City.
Nov. 27,
Tuesday--Ground Zero Plus 77
THE MARINES HAVE LANDED—
IN A QUAGMIRE OR A BATTLE FOR INNOCENCE
The headline announcing the Marines “had landed” in the Kandahar, the
Taliban’s home base and spiritual center, reached up and grabbed at my
throat, its inky fingers closing tight around my windpipe, driving my mind
back thirty-five years ago when I was one in the first contingent of Marines
to land in Vietnam.
I
remember rushing ashore, eager “to kill the enemy,”—to rid the “evil ones”
of their “terrorism” over the people of Vietnam. There was a
great rush of energy in those early days, for we, the Marines, were going to
“free” the slaves of “oppression,” and “right the wrongs,” of the world.
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Cliff McKenzie--1965 |
Most
importantly, we were all trained and willing to give our lives in that
pursuit.
Little
did we know that once the glitter had worn off, we would be abandoned to a
world of politics and fight not in pursuit of “justice,” but to appease the
whims of political pundits who had no idea what it took to win a war.
Compromise replaced attack, and hesitation thwarted aggression.
We ended up in a quagmire of political, social and moral morass from which
America is still smarting.
Not that
I liken the situation in Vietnam exactly to that in Afghanistan.
There are differences. In Vietnam, we weren’t directly attacked.
Thousands of innocent Americans didn’t die in a horrible assault on
civilians. We didn’t yell: “Remember The World Trade
Center!” But the goal was the same—“Kill the Terrorists of
Freedom!” “Eliminate The Evil Ones!”
The
President stated: “America must be prepared for loss of life.”
I wondered if, in the final analysis, it would be worth it.
Would revenge justify the deaths of brave young men? Back when I
went to war, fighting for “freedom” of an “oppressed people” was enough
justification. Today, it seems even more “just” to “die” for
those who were killed by the Terrorists on September 11.
But, back
thirty-five years ago I wasn’t a Parent of Vigilance, or a Grandparent of
Vigilance, or a Citizen of Vigilance. Instead, I was a young,
eager, idealistic man who was willing to lay down his life for people who
mostly couldn’t read or writer, or speak my language.
When I
came back and America spat on me, and called me a “baby killer,” and a “war
monger,” I felt the shame and guilt of a nation that turned its back on
those willing to die for “anybody’s freedom.”
Ironically,
today, the warriors fighting in Afghanistan are not there as “liberators,”
in the true sense, but there as “eliminators,” bent on the direct
“assassination” of a specific leader. Had we had the same
mission in Vietnam—the killing of Ho Chi Minh and his band of
Terrorists—perhaps I would have returned to ticker tape parades and
accolades instead of an angry nation that demeaned and derided all of us who
fought, were wounded or died for that elusive butterfly called “freedom.”
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Perhaps that’s
why the headline grabbed me so hard--MARINES HAVE
LANDED!. It seemed to foreshadow the horror of giving
your life for something that was controlled not by military guidelines, but
by political parameters and “glory polls” that the government used to make
their plans for the life and death of its children of combat.
As I recall the war I
fought in, it was a war of Children Of Peace. The Marines I
fought with were mostly young men, ranging from seventeen to nineteen.
They were young idealists as I was, born in a country famous for spilling
its blood on foreign soils in pursuit of preserving the democratic dogma in
the face of oppression.
So many of
those “childish” faces flashed before my eyes as I blinked a number of times
while reading the headline. I saw them bleeding, crying for
“mommy” as the blood gushed out of their bodies and their eyes rolled in
fatal fear of the unknown clutches of death. I could hear them
trying to laugh like men, forcing their Voices to sound deep and manly, but
sometimes the high pitch of a falsetto speared out instead, reminding
everyone the child was in transition to the man, but the evolution was not
yet complete.
I
remember their faces—the young boys, the children of war—as we would prepare
to land in a hot Landing Zone (LZ), bullets flying, mortars chewing the ground, the smell
of smoke clogging the nostrils. They turned white. Their eyes
bulged. Their hands shook as they neared the “jaws of death.”
The strong knight in them that had been trained to “kill” was not prepared
to “die.” Their eyes became as frightened as the child in the dark of
a bedroom with a naked branch whacking at the window and lightening flashing
in the sky.
I
wondered how many of the 500 Marines at Kandahar were about to “piss their
pants.”
Fear,
Intimidation and Complacency have no room on the battlefield. If
they infect the warrior, the warrior dies a quick and sometimes painful
death. I had seen so many young men new to battle flinch,
hesitate, and receive the “killing blow” because of their “greenness to
battle.” Conversely, I saw the child transform quickly
into a mass murderer, young men who got the taste of killing and would shoot
anything that moved—men, women, children—to rack up their “kills.”
In one village
we entered, a young Marine asked an old Vietnamese woman for water.
She brought him a bucket and nervously handed it to him. He drank from
it, spat it out, and accused her of trying to poison him. Then he
proceeded to choke her. I thought he was joking at first, but
his eyes were glazed and as I struggled to release his fingers from her
frail neck, they were like iron. I yelled and shouted at him to
stop, but the Beast of Terror had him—had converted him into a senseless
killer. I had to rifle butt him in the back of the head,
rendering him unconscious before his hands released the old woman’s throat.
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I hoped none of the young Marines who would bathe themselves
in death and destruction would become the “evil ones.”
But it is hard to walk in the rows of death and not be afflicted
by the senselessness of killing. After a while,
your moral compass becomes numb. You find yourself
not thinking, not judging, just killing and killing until there
are no feelings in you, no compassion, no reservations.
You become a blind warrior. You become an “ultimate Terrorist,”
willing to blindly drive a jetliner into any “evil one’s” building.
Terrorism, I thought, must tactically only be fought by Terrorism.
You can’t play fair against an enemy who doesn’t play fair and
win. Vietnam taught us that lesson. To win, you
must become the hunted not the hunter. You must walk in
the prey's shoes, think as it thinks, act as it acts.
But, to win, you have to do it better. It is a Newtonian
Law—for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
And to alter that action, you must exercise more unequal force.
I wished I had been excited about my fellow Marines being the
first official fighting forces on the ground in Afghanistan.
But I wasn’t. I felt the sadness of knowing the
Children Of War—the Marines—were going to become Terrorists.
I knew, because near the end of my tour in Vietnam, I became
one. I become a stone cold killer. That’s
the way of war. It either changes your innocence
or you die.
I thought
about the Marine Corps slogan—Semper Fi! Always
Faithful, I thought--faithful to the Corps, to my comrades,
to the flag. I would cheer on my Marines.
But I wouldn’t cheer them on to become stone cold killers.
I would cheer them on as Children of Vigilance, hoping that
perhaps some strands of innocence, if only one sliver, might
remain after they are drenched in blood.
Cliff McKenzie
New York City Combat Correspondent
Former U.S. Marine Corps Combat Correspondent, Vietnam 1965-66
Parent Of Vigilance
Grandparent Of Vigilance
Marine Of Vigilance
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To: "The Shame Of Forgetting To Remember Our Heroes Of
September 11"
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