Releasing "Enemy"; Taking Hold of Love

My mind races in a myriad of directions as I consider the readings from Session Two of the JustFaith module on torture; as I look back over my notes, contemplate the words, the people behind the words, all that remains unspoken and unbearable. In an attempt to organize my thoughts, I will begin with the end – the stories – and work back to the start – the encyclicals, etc.

In, “Argentine Mothers of the Disappeared,” the author concludes writing, “There is no doubt that today many families…who have had their loved ones disappeared into clandestine detention through the extraordinary rendition processes in the post 9/11 war on terrorism must be looking at the example and struggle of the Argentine Madres. Their legacy therefore is vibrant and may have even more global relevance today than in Argentina 30 years ago.”

After so much reading about torture and disappearances occurring in other areas of the world, South and Central America, Asia, etc., I was grateful for (albeit saddened by) these words that offer a reminder that torture and disappearances are not an “out there in the world” issue. The U.S. not only covers for or sideways supports governments that do these things but is also directly responsible for disappearances, for torture. So what does this mean for us, as supposed agents of this “democratic-republic” (not to mention “agents of nonviolent change”)? How do we respond?

Penny Lernoux, in Cry of the People, recounts the words an interrogator spoke to Fr. Patrick Rice – who had been abused by electric shock, and by accounts of how his friend Fatima, whose screams he could hear, was being tortured all the more because of him – “I am also against violence and for that reason I won’t kill you.” How absurd and sickening those words sound in the context of this account. But it begs the question, what are we talking about when we talk about violence? How do we articulate the depth and breadth of it? When are we letting little things escalate; accommodating, adapting, until we don’t recognize our own culpability, our own evil. I know that Marie has already written of her, but I cannot help drawing on the clarity of Etty Hillesum’s reflections written during Nazi raids:

“We human beings cause monstrous conditions, but precisely because we cause them, we soon learn to adapt ourselves to them. Only if we become such that we can no longer adapt ourselves, only if, deep inside, we rebel against every kind of evil, will we be able to put a stop to it...while everything in us does not yet scream out in protest, so long will we find ways of adapting ourselves, and the horrors will continue.” (From An Interrupted Life.)

And this brings me to the readings from the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops. These documents that summarize an abundance of theories and experiences of God and humanity and attempt to constrict them to almost comically, constrained words; words that will always be inadequate, but are nevertheless necessary tools to unite and direct our thoughts:

“The deepest element of God’s commandment to protect human life is the requirement to show reverence and love for every person and the life of every person.”

“All of society should ‘respect, defend and promote the dignity of every human person, at every moment and in every condition of that person’s life.”

“[We must endeavor] to rediscover the ability to revere and honor ever person.”

And it is this reverence, this respect, and above all this love that ought to always catch us in the moment; that ought to always beg the question of us, am I acting out as I would desire to be acted toward? Am I loving as I would desire to be loved? What does love require? “We are guided and sustained by the law of love.” John Paul II writes. He goes on to say, “[the height of love] is to pray for one’s enemy.” Is prayer the height? I can’t help but believe that it is more than words, more than prayer. Unless it is a prayer that infects and propels our bodies and minds and hearts toward healing, reconciliation, resistance; a prayer that directs our attention to our neighbor and teaches us to shy away even from the mentality of enemy (enemy of who? enemy why?) and to see not only Christ but oneself, one’s most beloved, in everyone.

Forgive me for ending with another Etty quote, I can’t help myself:

“All disasters stem from us. Why is there a war? Perhaps because now and then I might be inclined to snap at my neighbor. Because I and my neighbor and everyone else do not have enough love. Yet we could fight war and all its excrescences by releasing, each day, the love that is shackled inside us, and giving it a chance to live…In any case, we cannot be lax enough in what we demand of others and strict enough in what we demand of ourselves.”

May we always forgive, but never excuse ourselves when we fail to love our neighbors as ourselves. And with that, remembering always the lesson of the “good Samaritan,” that is, that it is not for us to decide who is and isn’t a neighbor, but to be a neighbor to whomever we may encounter.

Kai-ros, what is that again?

L’Odyssēe d’Astērix is a child’s tale, an adventure story and a graphic novel that portrays in one character, Obélix, a simple-minded man of superhuman strength. His gift to his companion Astērix is this strength, useful in their odyssey especially when they must quell strife in Egypt and escape with their well-being intact. The quick thinking and superior speed of Astērix combines with the power of Obélix to carry away the day, so to speak—these are the heroes after all.

A tale like this reminds us of the virtues of teamwork even when we possess as individuals gifts of extraordinary measure. It serves us during Advent as a further reminder. We might forget during the ordinary calendar year of the true measure of our lives, for instance. As opposed to chronos, when we turn our attention to the lessons of Advent and our mind expects kairos, this means we look forward to the inbreaking presence of God in our lives. The extraordinary measure of our lives as Christians ultimately is the sacred, that which we most treasure: Christ. So Advent means looking up from our lives to the Christ, that measure of God we do know. It means considering the extraordinary gift that God has offered us and it means to acknowledge how, like in L’Odyssēe d’Astērix, we could only have arrived in this present moment through the mysterious and powerful effort of Christ.

Visualization: A Start for an Advent Meditation

Let’s imagine that we’re seated in a comfortable room and the atmosphere given by dim lights and candles have subdued our hurried minds, our breath has slowed, softened, and each of us with our pose settled, relaxed, has begun to consider an imaginary landscape. We have closed our eyes. Cold sand massages our feet and a lake’s wave reaches up to our toes. Our inner eyes spread upon the lake’s horizon along the front of dark green pines on the lake’s far shore. The distant panorama of green stretches up to our left into a peak until past the timber line the brittle earth emerges to point at the sun. It floats above in a cloudless sky. The suns rays warm us through our t-shirt and jeans. The mildest breeze softly brushes our hair. We feel safe and calm at the water’s edge. As we look toward the sky with our eyes closed, we can feel its warmth almost inviting us upward off our feet, but the invitation is unexpected: really? Could we really float upward and into the sky? Oh, but we want to. We wish the sun could envelop us in its safe round rays. We would even like to dissolve into the light, and just be totally radiant for awhile.

I would like to imagine now that we have a shawl wrapped around us. It is ragged from age and smells of mothballs. It hangs heavily on our shoulders. It feels a little moist, damp at one corner where it must have accidentally dragged in the water as we waded along the shore. As we contemplate the sun, we could almost feel ourselves lifted; but for the weight of the shawl we would have. Something about this shawl is holding us back. What is it? How can we name it and let it loose, just let it go? Then we could be free! We could float!

Why continue this meditation? Because our loved ones are waiting for us to let go. In Advent we might recognize what holds us back from catching up with our Sunlight, our loved ones. If we are the Christ the world needs now, and our witness remains to be seen, then what is the obstacle, the weighty shawl, that we burden ourselves with?

The Lights

Each of the bodies was solemn beneath the light. Two lay on the foot wide benches curled on their sides, a third lay on the cell floor and on this prisoner the light reflected least. The features of this newcomer held on to the light they received from overhead. His eyelids were unconcerned by time and his involuntary posture was limp and his mouth paused ajar. His jaw met squarely at the chin. His voice lay dormant in the darkness of that cave but the pink tongue lacquered the edge of one lip and liberated a streak of saliva. His eyelids fidgeted first, then his tongue retracted. Finally from somewhere deep within him the bow of his abdomen expanded.

He had said, “It’s jail. There’s nothing to do but sleep.”

A sound stirred from the deep; it could have been a vacuum. Dry air rushed over the tongue and past the tonsils, the larynx, and into the furthest pockets of his lungs. It was held there, the air separated from itself, unaware of a movement outside itself, self-absorbed, and it seemed like seventy seven hours of unforgiveness. It became surreal, this subdivision of itself, for inside the sacks that had pocketed the air, it seemed as if little arms reached from the surrounding dark arresting the breath and demanding that it relinquish the luggage it carried, the oxygen had to be given over. These little red Gestapo cells were already ferrying away the boldest of the breath along crammed little flotillas or little train carts destined into the farthest corners of darkness. Few oxygen escaped this scrutiny or the fate within these detention centers.

To all appearances these bodies were inert and still they held hostage the gases invisible about them. Their tongues grew dry from the depleted, stale air, and yet in oblivion they knew nothing of the ongoing deportation that they were complicit in. If they would have any suspicions of guilt later it would come in the faintest flicker of conscience, for they would notice the parched roof of their mouths and want to wet their voices before they could talk again. However, before they could be aware of this even, the strangeness of their bodies would question their sleepiness in the face of the light. When they awoke this would override all other anomalies, the steadfastness of the walls, the ceiling, the cement all around them. Such was long ago decided, made permanent. But more obvious would be the unnaturalness of the lights, forever unblinking false daylight at them, soaking the irises of their eyes and bleaching out their unconsciouness.

Hens in mass egg production get treated this way. In the wild a hen will only begin to lay eggs in spring but agribusiness solved the nature dilemma by imitating the seasons to trick the hens to lay more eggs. First the caged, warehoused hens are fed large quantities of protein. Then, in emulation of winter, the lights of the warehouse are dimmed and the hens are fed nothing for two weeks. Next, the hens resumed regular feeding and the lights are now on twenty-four hours a day. Its biological process manipulated, the hen now begins to produce eggs.

Be the Magi you wish for

“We are not fighting for integration, nor are we fighting for separation. We are fighting for recognition as human beings.” Malcom X spoke these words in New York City on April 8^th, 1964 and I hear him speaking to me today. Only a few days ago on my way home from Georgia I stopped in Nashville during a four hour Greyhound layover. I wandered up capitol hill where I stood perched on the high ground overlooking the occupy movement in Legislative Plaza. The stone marker before me bore a plaque in memoriam to the horrors of the middle passage. It recounted the woe of a hundred million captured Africans bound below decks by the hundreds. Half died during the voyage, couped up, flesh rotting in chains, stricken by disease and perishing of famine.

Grounds for Empathy

My vantage point was increased having come up from Tyrell County, Georgia where I was jailed for resisting immigrant detention and deportation, held on charges of criminal trespass at Stewart Detention Center, our nation’s largest immigration detention center. Anton Flores, lead organizer for the rally and march on SDC and former prisoner of conscience, bailed me out after three days. On our drive to his home he repeated a radio announcer’s description, saying, “Tyrell County, if you remember, was known during the civil rights era as ‘Terrible Tyrell’ for its flagrant racist hate.”

It struck me there on capitol hill that this monument stood also for the brothers today facing deportation, the mothers and daughters separated, and it stood also for the cause to question all imprisonment. Because peoples imprisoned today remain subjects of sale. Under the 13^th amendment to the Constitution prisoners are property of the government. I personally experienced forced labor earlier this year and couldn’t in conscience tolerate it.

A Flashback

Why are they doing this to us, I asked. We were on “Con Air” making passage from Oklahoma to various parts of the country. I was destined for Seattle, though I didn’t know it, and was separated with others when we landed in Las Vegas. It was a Friday morning. Rather than continue the journey we had stopped and now a party of us were given into the custody of Pahrump County Detention Center run by the Corrections Corporation of America (CCA). On Tuesday the journey resumed, but not after the CCA, a privately owned company with public shares sold on the stock market, had booked us and included us on their list showing the Congress why they should be allocated so many funds a year in contract with the Federal Bureau of Prisons. Hallucinagenic really, the bright lights of experience, and I couldn’t believe the trip I was on.

But standing remote now and in possession of my rights of citizen on that prominent ground, I saw the Occupy movement down below with eyes of hope. After all it is the gift of this movement that awakens so many of us to the possibility that comes with our unified and resolute no to the profit schemes subjugating the 99%. NO! to the violation of our positive values, our hopes and dreams for true democracy.

The timing of an insight is sometimes everything.

It was the week of Thanksgiving, of Black Friday and as I write this—Sabbath for the first Sunday of Advent. The plaque before me suggested a revision of my sense of history. If we could all surrender our sense of context once again to re-vision the middle passage’s closing chapter in 1865 to four hundred years man on man profit-making. If this Advent the coming of Christ we look for in and through our stand with the Occupy movement could be another memorial, another closing chapter remembered by future generations. The question is if we will have anything to do with it. Some will make new years resolutions and still be handed a rewards card from the Marriot that reads “Welcome Back Elite Member”. Others will place themselves into the Gospel and renew their understanding of history, and will see the road tread by Jesus to Jerusalem. Given the perspective one will see a capitol hill and another, the mound of Golgotha.

Meanwhile, Advent to Kairos Chicago...

It is a time of preparation for our fast and witness against torture. If we have a task this advent it begins in revisioning ourselves significant, powerful witnesses. I think of us as the journeying Magi bearing gifts for the Christ child. If we preach the cross even now it shouldn’t be surprising, for even Frankincense, used to prepare a corpse for the tomb, was a royal gift. Look to the Frankincense of your experience then, fellow travelers, and renew a commitment to a belief in redemptive suffering.

We must follow the guiding lights of nonviolence, always, though they lead us to Nazareth and all tell us “What good ever came out of Nazareth?” or what good does fasting do, or civil disobedience, or occupying a street corner? As Malcom X came to realize, ordinary human beings would have to act with boldness on behalf of unrecognized dehumanized beings: “It is a time for martyrs now, and if I am to be one, it will be for the cause of brotherhood. That’s the only thing that can save this country.” New York City, 19 February 1965

the occupation is not leaving

Last night, I spent some time with the Occupy Chicago movement.

Why did I join them?

... I think this movement is a concrete step to re-assert the voice of the common good in the discourse of our country

... I hope that the 10/22 action: "creating a space... where real democracy is possible," marks a transition from outrage to creativity

... I want to be a part of that journey

I thought I would take a few minutes to post some observations as an eyewitness to history last night. I will include some links to stories and media provided by others, to add perspective, but like any movement, the occupation is to be experienced, not observed. Nevertheless, as activists, we need to claim our story, so here is some of it:

7pm, 10/22

Crowd gathers @ Jackson & LaSalle, estimated by CPD to be as many as 3,000 people. Biggest crowd I have seen in 29 days of occupation. Spirit of anticipation and courage among the crowd.

7:15pm

Protestors swarm Jackson heading east, once we take the street there is no hurry. People as far as eye can see in front of me and behind me, climbing on barricades and light posts to get pictures, police cars block traffic and all intersections. As we cross Wabash, an EL train is pulling out of Adams/Wabash station, driver slows train over Jackson, waves and thumbs up to the crowd.

7:45pm

CPD horses meet us at Jackson & Michigan, crowd enters Grant Park, confined to sidewalk, and thousand converge on the plaza where we intend to “set up a permanent community, in the hope of creating a space where constructive debate and real democracy is possible.” The intersection of Michigan & Congress, “Liberation Square,” is Occupy Chicago’s intended location for an ongoing presence, which has been denied by the city. Must-see video from one of the most remarkable moments of the night: http://youtu.be/5yKyICPJOKc Keep in mind, this began as 7 people sitting in front of the Federal Reserve!?

8:00pm

Occupiers flock to the Bowman Statue chanting “take the horse!” (see previous video, chant begins at 2:22) conjuring images of 1968: http://youtu.be/DqdM87_Lmv4 CPD wagons already parked ominously on the south and west side of the plaza.

8:15pm

Open mic begins for representatives of unions, students, and other groups/individuals with the coalition. Most moving were a Hyatt hotel employee seeking living wage and a mental health patient denouncing cut backs in services.

9:00pm

People begin to pitch a tent, way in the front of the crowd out of sight from the street (or so we thought), almost immediately, 25 police dart through the crowd for what feels like a premature and unwarranted confrontation. Movement is momentarily confused, tense showdown, mic is silent, then calling for legal help. Some begin to chant. People take down the tent, Police eventually leave, situation diffused. Ten minutes later, they re-assembled the tent, and I helped pitch another one.

11:05pm

I had left for a bite to eat and a bathroom break, my friends headed home. Out of curiosity, I return to the plaza where only a couple hundred people remain. Situation seems very tense and uncertain… police show up with bike racks, pushing folks towards the sidewalk, organizers form into a picket line. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I notice a crowd now across the street on the west side of Michigan Ave. I assume that an arrest warning has been issued. Turns out, park curfew is 11pm. I’m in the arrest zone! I fled out the north side of the park, asking cops what’s going on, “there have already been plenty of warnings.”

11:22pm

Cook County sheriff buses arrive and park on Michigan Ave both curbside lanes and median shut down, but two-lanes of traffic open each way, obstructing views and sounds from across the street. Picket line 200 strong still holding down the west sidewalk of the plaza, over 100 remain within barricade. Over 100 cops onsite, a dozen secure the perimeter with bike racks. Cops are responding differently to the situation, some tapping their feet to music, others bickering with the crowd on both sides of street, mostly just standing around.

11:33pm

Final police warning, all tents have been destroyed/removed except First Aid Tent with 2 nurses inside. Police tell picket line that sidewalk is subject to 11pm curfew. Since sidewalk is not park property, this was basically a lie, but it was repeated over a megaphone, and picketers concede part of the sidewalk to police, allowing more direct path for arrests. Picketers need to keep moving to avoid arrest for blocking sidewalk, even outside of barricade, on west and south side. Cops march into position and enter plaza from the north with zip ties.

midnight, 10/23

Some confusion among the crowd. Some want to move to Thompson Center, others want to stay in solidarity with arrests, some want to start a drum circle and dance, others want to remain solemn with chants… compromise: we stayed and we danced.

12:41am

I cross Mich Ave to potential arrest zone where picket line has held the perimeter now almost 2 hours. 300 strong on the sidewalk as the arrests begin: http://dissenter.firedoglake.com/2011/10/23/occupy-chicago-arrests-in-grant-park/

12:45am

Pizza delivered to southwest corner of plaza, cops will not allow it past the barricade… we chant “let them eat!” until cops allow pizza to be given to the folks inside. Nurses in tent warned of arrest… we chant “healthcare is a right!” As it turned out, the volunteer nurses were the final 2 arrests, after their tent was taken down by police. Nurses nationwide are calling for a march on Mayor’s Office Monday morning: http://chicago.indymedia.org/newswire/display/95152/index.php

1:00am

One activist asks to cross the barricade voluntarily joining the others. After the police question him crowd chants “let him in!” Activist is informed by police that inciting the crowd would be a felony, he turns to quiet the crowd and diffuse the situation. I did not see if he made it in after all.

1:15am

Arrests continue. One of the loudest chants of the night: “Why would you arrest us? We’re fighting for your pension!” followed by “YOU are the 99%”

1:30am

Moment of silence for the death of free speech in Congress Plaza. As arrests continue, this was incredibly surreal… the only quiet moment of the night.

2:45am

Nurses arrested. I’m home, asleep.

12:45pm

I bike from church to Jackson & LaSalle, where occupiers are holding the sidewalk for Day 30. They tell me nobody has been released from prison yet.

1:00pm

At the CPD District #1 station @ 18th & State, I find a couple dozen activists on the sidewalk with a bunch of snack food and 4 news crews. As I watched roughly 20 protesters were released in small groups over 2 hours. There was major concerns that the desk sergeant was not accepting bail payments for at least 2 activists who had now been arrested for the second night, claiming they would have to spend a second night in jail, and see a judge on Monday. The social media blitz has been underway all day trying to get attention for the treatment of our friends in jail.

overnight + all-day, reports from prison:

http://www.thenation.com/blog/164128/occupyusa-blog-special-weekend-edition

“One of the holding cells with about 30 men had no working sink. Their requests were ignored for 5 to 6 hours....An epileptic girl needed her meds. We yelled for an hour before anyone came and then they ignored for another hour....We yelled for about sixteen hours to make a phonecall before they finally let some of us...This protester asked different police officers 86 times politely to make a phone call. Ignored all night.....

"We were given no food until noon today after yelling for hours they gave us a bologna sandwich.....Most of those of us who were in jail were not even allowed a phone call even though we asked for one repeatedly.....Two of the people who did get a phonecall report that the bondsmen were playing videogames instead of working on our paperwork....None of the men were given toilet paper for the past twenty hours."

Mayor, Rahm Emmanuel 312-744-5000

Governor, Pat Quinn 217-782-0244

CPD District #1 Direct Line: 312-745-4290

A Picnic

I want my life

To run direct into your embrace,

Not turning aside

Until I am hidden in the safety of your gaze.

--
Augustine, Confessions 13.8.9

One afternoon while I was at a halfway house I received a surprise visit from Frank. Per usual, I had my head in a book when the loudspeaker on my floor blared, “Resident Christopher Spicer, please come to the 105 desk. You have a visitor.” I shook my head out of the rural world of William Faulkner. “Room 408, please come to the 1-0-5, immediately.” As I spun off the bed Light in August flung out of my hands, and was replaced by the doorknob. I turned the corner like I was the emergency exit route bolted on the back of the door and whirled down the red stairs two at a time. I had no idea who had come and it didn’t matter; someone had come to visit me.

At the front desk a stern staff member reminded us that it wasn’t my official visiting day but was resigned to give us fifteen minutes to talk. Frank’s face, for whatever arrangements he had made in sacrifice, showed no sign of disappointment. His sunny disposition brought relief and it lingered with me even as I climbed the stairs back to my hermitage. I looked out my window at Sears Tower anticipating our next meeting Sunday when I had a two-hour, release pass to attend church.

Come time, I stepped out of the Salvation Army residence. Wearing a tan collared shirt embroidered Engineers Without Borders, Frank was waiting for me in the parking lot with the engine running. “Instead of finding some café,” he said checking his watch, “I made breakfast. We can eat in the park before Mass.” The Volvo interior was a contrast to the caged buses of the Bureau of Prisons; I wasn’t handcuffed; and in cup holders within reach, two berry smoothies sweat condensation. “That’s for starters.”

Who does this?

A twinge of guilt suspended my delight. I felt bold trespassing the hour fast, custom before communion. On the other hand, his preparation was touching me to the core. He rebutted my thanks with, “I’m a Catholic Worker and visiting the prisoner is in our creed.” Minutes later, sitting with a view of yoga practitioners limbering up on a grassy knoll, I watched as he pulled out from sealed Tupperware homemade pancakes still steaming, real butter and hot syrup, then blueberries and fresh sliced plums. It was the first time in six months I held plates in my hands and real silverware; and only beginning to enjoy sunlight for the fifth time in the fifth month, the picnic scene was like outdoor dining at a four star country club.

Frank consecrated our meal with prayer centering us in the Easter season. Bigger than the both of us, something larger than a visit or even a work of mercy was happening; we were celebrating a resurrection meal. And during seconds, I learned Frank had planned one more surprise: Friends would meet us at Mass.