(by Conor)

Crescent City is the place where we where to be whisked away from our coastal route to come speak in Ashland, OR, but we got into town and found the bike shop closed and no other options for bike storage left, and our ride to Ashland couldn’t accommodate them. This led to a good bit of our morning being spent scouring patches of woods around the city for their bike concealing capabilities. After scouting a few locations, we came back to the first area we had found for concealment, a nice patch of blackberry briar and head high grass. After throwing our bikes in the briar patch and tossing some camouflaging plant matter on top of them, we were set to go to Ashland. From what I had heard, someone in Ashland wanted Josh and myself to stop by, but Ashland was too far out of the way, with a mountain range in between so we had to decline their offer. The good people of Ashland, however, wouldn’t take no for an answer and found a ride to meet us on our coastal route and to drive us over to Ashland and back onto the coast after a couple of days, so we succumbed to their wishes and with our bikes hidden, hopped in our ride. For a couple of hours, we twisted and climbed amongst some of the most enchanting forest covered mountains I had ever seen. Were we on bikes, I probably would have disappeared into the redwoods for a time period which would have made us late to wherever we were to be next, so being strapped up in a car was probably a good thing.

In Ashland, we were dropped off at the home of Valarie and Edeltrout, two amazing ladies who were  involved in some amazing peace work with a local group called The Peace House. They are also on the board of new group , which was partly the reason we were there. The other part of the reason for our being there was a bit more obvious, and after we had some time to clean up a bit, we were off to Southern Oregon University where Josh and I would have our talk. It seemed the local VFP and Peace House pulled all their cards for this one, bringing in an amazing crowd who contributed to a dynamic discussion after our stories. At the end of the evening, with an announcement that only one more idea was to be discussed, a local VRPer, Hal, stood up and asked the tough one: How had we been affected by PTSD and how are we experiencing healing from it?  This was the other reason we were in Ashland, to answer this question not only for the talk that night, but to help a group of locals better be able to address the needs of their returning national guard unit.

The next night a group of about 7 community members met at Valarie and Edeltrout’s house to begin focusing their efforts on how to help reach out to the returning national guard. Josh and I had been invited to offer some input on the needs of returning soldiers and the challenges they may be facing. Coming home is the obstacle that smacks everyone in the face after deployment, no one expects the simple home life they’ve been dreaming of for months on end to be the most challenging environment they have left to adapt to. I believe a major factor in this is something Josh and I noticed during our time in the military, a separation which we’re told exists between civilians and military personnel. The Marines illustrate this well with the term “nasty civilian,” replacing any actual title for those working outside the military. Before my time in Iraq, I was baffled by this phrase, didn’t we all know and love civilians? My time spent home between tours cleared up this confusion. Now I could understand why these people running around in a huff because they’re five minutes late for pilates, were nasty, living thanklessly in a world far removed from the war I just came home from. I felt alone in my experience, an experience I thought others couldn’t understand or even appreciate, but wasn’t talked about anyways. So, in this group, we talked about these things, how there is a war still going on inside of returning soldiers, and they’re coming home to an oblivious population. There needs to be shoulders to lean on, listening ears responding with empathy, and the sad thing is, many soldiers will not even get that from their own family, as war still rages on inside. The group we were sitting with had been considering the idea of setting up some kind of compassionate listening network to help the returning soldiers simply be able to talk to someone and begin to process what they went through. This seemed like a marvelous idea. We brainstormed a while, and realized that returning soldiers often face problems in the family, not knowing how to communicate what they’ve been through properly. With that realization, the group started to feel that offering the soldier’s family members compassionate listening classes while the soldier is still in Iraq would be another great step towards healing.

It was amazing to sit in a room with a peace community actively developing a way to reach out to the men and women returning home from war. To run into people like this, putting aside any judgment in effort to help someone in need, is always inspiring. Ashland seemed to have a lot of these people around, and during our short stay, we had an amazing time getting to meet and learn from such a wide range of people, from old hippies to high school seniors hellbent on changing the world (which I think they’ll find a way to do that). Sometime things get so inspiring that after a meeting one has to break out in some musical jams, which becomes all the more awesome when others join in. This wasn’t quite the hoedown I may make it to be, but the evening did end pleasantly when the youngest member of the peace group brought her guitar in from her car and we had a good time trying to play together (rather me trying to keep  up).

Dear Friends,

The biking part of our journey has reached an end. The official conclusion to our trip will be at the School of the Americas Watch Vigil from the 20th-22nd.

We will continue to blog about the rest of our trip and the next chapter: involvement in our local communities.

We are also hoping to record our experiences into a book and would greatly appreciate you sharing how The Contagious Love Experiment affected you and any memories you might have if we had the honor to meet you along our way.

Thank you for your support, encouragement, and kindness,

Josh and Conor

 

Dear friends of hearts,

Please watch our Afghan peace youth vigilers say with the world “Love is how we’ll ask for peace.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLKR6iEdZGs

Please take our next small steps with us.

Love and peace from Afghanistan,

Hakim

http://ourjourneytosmile.com/blog

Our call to stand and act together in

‘Love is how we’ll ask for peace’

Most of us in our disparate world today would hardly believe or be affected by our ordinary, almost mundane burden.

But we’ve always imagined that when people come together to stand for love, life changes.

Most often, changes happen in only a tiny part of the world, a little community, a small fraternity; and though all of which will, like human civilizations do, eventually pass away, the changes are worthwhile for holistic, consistent growth.

In standing for love, there’ll be the un-welcome laughter of cynical disbelief and hopelessness which we’ve seen much of but will not cower to.

We’ll be hurt by self-righteous censure that has forgotten human empathy but we’re ready for that too.

The cold ‘alone-ness’ of such difficulties is common to humankind, but because love is also common to all people, these challenges cannot touch those restful places of love within humanity. We believe it is love that will triumph.

It is this love that would keep us journeying in the snow and the rain, even if we fall.

It is this love that lends meaning to any family or friendship.

It is this love we’re counting on not to fail.

This love is how we’ll ask for peace.

I remember a 12 year old girl dying from leukemia. In her final hours, she urgently asked the nurses to phone her estranged and separated parents to come to her hospital bedside. They did come and she did die but before she passed on, she asked that they would lay aside their conflicting differences and to reconcile, not just for her sake as she was soon leaving them, but primarily for their own sake. That was not an urgency of desperation. It was the clear, sincere urgency of a love that would not let go. There was nothing for her young heart to lose. I’d like to believe that she recognized what many of us may spend all our proud lives denying, that when bodies and tongues cease, love remains.

It is with this urgency of love that we ask fellow human beings all over the world to restore wide-scale humane relations everywhere through love and reconciliation and thus build a kinder future.

We believe that the world is historically waiting (see “Is this our Afghan moment of peace?”), especially those of us waiting meekly in the shadows for light and warmth to arrive.

Yes, we’re asking the Nobel Peace Laureate President Obama to respond to our ordinary message of peace from Afghanistan, the place of wars.

Yes, we’re asking for true peace and reconciliation.

But above all, we’re asking un-ashamedly to raise the possibility of love, with hope that we may smile at one another in affirmative, dignified greetings once again.

Our immediate goal

With love, we request the 2009 Nobel Peace Laureate, President Obama, to answer the Afghan youth peace message ‘Reconciliation of Civil Hearts’, as part of his wider message of peace to the peaceful future of our shared world, on or about the 10^th of December, the day he will receive the Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo, Norway.

Our larger goal is to encourage Afghanistan and the world towards concrete love and peace, through wide scale reconciliatory and humane relations.

How we’ll work towards our immediate goal in the next one month ,

before the 10^th of December 2009        

The road had opened before us when the U.S. Ambassador to Afghanistan, Karl Eikenberry, kindly visited our Afghan peace vigil group at the Bamiyan Peace Park in Afghanistan on the 28^th of October 2009. During the visit, he promised the Afghan peace youth vigilers that he would get a response from President Obama, to their message of peace “Reconciliation of Civil Hearts”

Internationally, in the next one month before President Obama receives his Nobel Peace Prize in Norway, we will garner the heart-to-heart support of Afghan and international youth peace volunteer supporters by collecting the signatures of supporters with pictures of their individual smiling faces.

We will put them all into growing landscape-style pictures / motages. To rally a heart-storm of love in this effort, we’ll encourage all supporters to blog at the blog-site http://youthpeacevolunteers.blogspot.com/, entitled “Afghan & international youth peace volunteers say together, ‘Love is How We’ll Ask for Peace.’

In Afghanistan, we hope to hold a Afghan national youth peace convention in Bamiyan in the month of November.

All updates can also be found at http://ourjourneytosmile.com/blog

Our current partners

Our Journey to Smile ( the 10 Afghan peace vigil youth are part of this peace-building group in Afghanistan, with international volunteers from Singapore )

http://ourjourneytosmile.com/blog

Contact person : Hakim at journeytosmile@gmail.com

ContagiousLoveExperiment  (2 Iraq veterans’ Josh Steiber and Conor Curran who are actively promoting peace)

http://contagiousloveexperiment.wordpress.com/

Contact person : Josh at desertcamel87@yahoo.com

Olympia WA Fellowship of Reconciliation USA and Iraq Memorial to Life ( who had up to 100 persons who kept the vigil with the Afghan youth peace volunteers concurrently in Olympia, USA )

http://www.olyfor.org/

http://www.iraqmemorialtolife.org

Contact person : Douglas Mackey at douglas.mackey@youthpeacevolunteers.org

This is the group we have now and with this small number of supporters we ask for your support – because it will take more of us to deliver the message to enough people so that it makes a difference.

We know our support will grow as we reach our list of individual personal contacts with international peacemakers and peace groups.

How to support each other immediately

Any individual, young or old, who wishes to stand with the Afghan and international peace volunteers, in support of their peace request to President Obama, can

1. Sign in as a Fan of Youth Peace Volunteers on Facebook ( click below )

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Youth-Peace-Volunteers/206186386153?v=wall

By becoming a Fan, you are indicating your support for the Afghan youth peace volunteers’ appeal to President Obama

1. Send a quick email to youthpeacevolunteers@gmail.com

Simply indicate: Yes to Youth Peace Volunteers!

Provide your name and nationality and if you are willing to have your smiling face put together in a collage picture, send us your picture too!

We will begin to compile these hearts of love, peace and reconciliation into landscape and collage-style pictures and watch humanity’s love grow!

Given the global picture of war and peace today, we believe that this is a unique, historical chance for all of us to raise the possibility of love in Afghanistan and beyond.

How to support each other on a wider scale and for the long run

Tell others about our shared effort of love and encouragement towards true peace and reconciliation, that is, let’s seed a heart-storm! We live, love and perish in the same world!

 

You can also blog with us at http://youthpeacevolunteers.blogspot.com/

from San Jose (by Josh)

 

Bandon, Oregon; five incredible months of walking through the rain of the northeast and biking beside cornfields and over mountains had finally brought me from one shore of the US to the other. But the ecstasy induced by the ocean air was a joy I had not had the last time I gazed out at the Pacific Ocean.

 

 

Almost two and a half years ago, I was in the early part of my fourteen month deployment to Iraq. Midway through the tour, each soldier got a two week vacation back in the US. I knew I was not in the psychological state to jump back into the familiarity of being back home in Maryland with so many memories, family members and friends; it would be a tease not a rest. So I headed to the other side of the country and spent my mid-tour leave on the shores of the Pacific, my immediate family meeting me for part of that time.

 

I have always loved the ocean, but the rolling waves with their gentle mists and rumbles did not bring the calmness and timeless bliss it usually had. Instead, it had mockingly become a symbol to the desperation I had found myself in. As I sat on the beach, the laughing and lightheartedness I heard all around me made me feel like I did in high school: everybody carrying on with their (what I judged as) superficial lives, all my friends saying they believed in the war, everybody waving flags, but nothing much done about it. In my estimation, everyone was looking out into the ocean, talking about it, but instead of going in the water, they sat in ignorance on the beach.

 

 

And during my mid-tour leave, as I sat on the beach staring into the waves, they reminded me of the troubles I saw in the world and unable to sit and watch, I had rushed into the swelling waves to protect those who couldn’t or wouldn’t, finding my meaning in the face of the crashing tides. But this dash into the sea that had washed me ashore in Iraq had not united me to those I thought I was serving, they were still laughing on the beach, I was getting tossed in the rough waters, what was there to bond us? I lived wanting bigger and bigger waves, somehow I was going to find meaning, to gain triumph over the greatest challenges. But the waves got bigger and bigger, I stood my ground, but everything made less and less sense. Soon I grew tired with the small waves and the final one to stand up to was the big one: death.

And I literally did try to stand up to it. In Iraq, we guarded the factory we lived in with humvees at the entrances. A turret was mounted on the roof of the humvees and while most guys would duck down and climb out the door, I would climb out the turret, over the roof of the humvee. And there were times when I would stand for a few seconds on the roof, completely exposed in the middle of a combat zone, stretch my arms out and yell things like “I’m the king of the world”. I stopped taking cover when out on patrols. “You’re not being very tactical” my friends would tell me, “you’re going to get sniped”. “If death wants me, it’ll find me one way or another” I would reply, unconcerned. If I could laugh at death in it’s face, if the biggest wave was no match for me, in some vague way I would be stronger than nature. I didn’t know that came after the biggest wave, but I knew what came before it and I didn’t want to go back to shore, I didn’t want to hide from life. But what was life? Why was life? I had left the beach, swam through the water, splashed through the biggest waves, and held my ground and all that achieved was a spitefulness towards and isolation from those still on shore, a vast ocean with no end in sight, and on top of all that, I was afraid of what I was becoming.

That 2007 trip to the Pacific, staring at the ocean, only reinforced all these haunting ideas. It was a living analogy of how I viewed my life. Since that time though, I have seen more of the ocean. I saw that fighting and rolling around in it’s biggest waves was not the final lesson there was to learn and I learned what I was most terrified of: it wasn’t the biggest wave, but beyond it, the calm, tranquil, endless sea. Instead of believing the only way to live a meaningful life was to use every bit of energy to challenge existence, the bigger challenge was letting go, floating peacefully on my back in the open sea… too huge and limitless for me to understand, but I could understand enough to try to become one with it.

No more looking in spite at those on shore, no more needing to prove myself to others, no more needing to prove that existence is meaningless; it was all connected.

 

Laying eyes on the Pacific this time, I still saw the waves beating harshly against the rocks, but they did so as they had always done and I also saw the ocean, the rocks, the beach, the cliff as one. This time on the coast, I had a lengthy discussion with some Vietnam Veterans also reaching beyond the waves who had created a home for the handicap back in Vietnam. Another veteran talked with me about conflict resolution and unlike last time I was here, I knew that resolution was possible. A woman I met told me about her work for detainee rights and instead of cynicism, I was inspired (http://freedetainees.org/). I also stayed a night at the home of a homosexual couple and was–as opposed to most of my life–absent of judgement… the tranquil sea splashes us all.

——————————————————-

Guru, voodoo

 Save your sorcery
There is wisdom in nature
It’s floating in the sea

 

See the waves of life crashing
And I go splashing through
The hurricanes of existence
No insistence on dry land
You’ve got to face these waves too

 

I’m asking will you
Get up off the beach?
There is wisdom in nature
It’s floating in the sea

 

See the waves crashing harder
I go farther, alone
Shouting at the hurricane
Bring the rain, I’m not afraid
Why’s everyone heading home?

 

Chose to face life
Freedom so heavy
Isn’t there wisdom in nature?
Somewhere in the sea?

 

But as the sea roars
The wind whispers to me:
One day you’ll face
Your biggest wave
Then its just open sea
And in that uncertainty
The pulling of the under toe
The hardest move is letting go
–An ocean of peace–

There is wisdom in nature
It’s floating in the sea

 

from Stockton, CA (by Conor)

It took Charlie’s dog, Poppy, a good nights rest curled up beside us, sharing the floor, to finally warm up to us. My sleeping bag felt too nice to leave for the longest time, until Poppy did the job my alarm clock couldn’t do and barked my brain alert from downstairs. It wasn’t long before Josh and I assembled in the kitchen and were met by Charlie, the Dominican Republic Vet we had been staying with, as well as Omar, a foreign exchange student from Yemen. Charlie began making what would turn out to be a delicious egg breakfast, as Josh and I sat and talked to Omar.  Having met him Omar a couple days ago, I was already impressed with the brightness of this high schooler. Our intrigue with the other was apparent, questions rapidly being exchanged back and forth. Omar was curious about soldiers who turned to compassion, not something he saw much of in the middle east. I was curious about how a young man from the middle east viewed the world.

In our conversation, Omar expressed a different kind of nationalism than most of us here in the United States have. “We’re all one people. What your country is doing to the Muslims in Iraq and Afghanistan is being done to all of us. We all hate it.” I could certainly understand this viewpoint, I was almost expecting it when I asked, but  wasn‘t sure how he would respond to, “What about the Israeli and Palestinian conflict?” Omar’s constant smile disappeared momentarily when I brought this subject matter up, then simply said, “What the Israelis are doing to the Muslims is very bad.” Looking for more clarification on why he felt this way I asked more about it, and an impassioned Omar told me stories of Palestinians being pushed out of their lands and the tragic shelling of civilian areas of the Gaza strip. I asked if he thought things could change, and received an immediate and sullen, “No, I do not.” Omar went on to express that if his schooling didn‘t end up working out, he would perhaps do the honorable thing and go help fight the Israelis himself. I was a bit worried hearing this from a guy whose constant smile, even during much of this tough subject matter, made him impossible to dislike. It’s almost ironic, this common ground that so many young men in Israel, the Muslim Middle East, and America all share, is a myth handed to them saying that the only violence can solve the problems they face. I hope one day we can all look back together as old men, and chuckle at having been so foolhearty in this shared mindset. Not being able to accept that this young man lacked the imagination to avoid violent conflict, I asked if he thought things would change if the U.S. cut it’s support of Israel’s military. “Yes, that would change everything,” Omar replied, as he began to imagine out load peaceful scenarios where resolution might be possible with this obstacle out of the way. It was good to see Omar doing what I knew so quickly what he was good at, thinking. Omar had many other interesting social observations, as when he told us with bemusement that in Yemen, from the hours of 4-7pm there was no chance of finding anybody school aged indoors, everyone was out having fun and playing sports. Here in America, he admitted, with some disappointment, having already fallen into the American video game trap. To be fair, no one would go out and have fun with him, there were already inside playing video games.

After a nice long breakfast, the conversation turned to trying to compel Omar to come with Charlie, Josh and myself to a cider pressing at Cougar Mountain Farm. Sadly our efforts were to no avail, so with full stomachs, we set off without Omar to Charlie’s truck and Charlie’s truck carried us out to the farm. As we piled out of the truck, there was an intense game of two on two basketball playing out on a dirt court not too far away from a campfire and a porch covered with boxes upon boxes of apples stacked near a small cider press. As we slowly made our way around the group of people there, learning new names and having some nice conversations, Josh and I somehow found ourselves mixed into this backyard ball tournament. I think if Josh knew about my basketball prowess he would have never even entertained the idea of playing with me. He knows about it now though, and I’m sure he won’t play with me again. We lost badly to say the least, but I wasn’t heartbroken, I had apples to be working on. I went back to rinsing apples for the cider, and before long, I was tasting a cider which far surpassed any liquid I had tasted before. I definitely will spend my time with cider rather than basketball in the future. After some mechanical difficulties with the press, we took a break and took a little tour of the Cougar Mountain Farm. Originally formed as a hippie commune in the sixties, the farm was being transformed into a sustainable education center and community. Solar panels powered the house, and a newly plated orchard and a hill side of a wide variety of crops provided the food for the farm and for sale at the local market, and Noah, one of the farm owners, was creating a great permaculture with the farm. It’s always inspiring to see people living out a different life, one that involves care for those around them and the land one lives on. My words couldn’t do such things justice, but I would encourage everyone to go check out a local community or farm built on sustainability and draw in some of this amazing inspiration I was lucky enough to experience here. Checking out The Transition Handbook by Rob Hopkins might be another inspiring  option if you cant find such a place in your area. But before long, we had to pull ourselves away from our tour of Cougar Mountain.  We needed to make it into Coos Bay that night, and we had used up all of our time.

Charlie giving us the Cougar Mountain tour

Our stay in Coos Bay was short, but we had an amazing time with the people we did meet. While our host was giving us a tour of our place for the night, she put in a CD of lovely music by Lynda Cole, a local artist who happened to stop by almost on cue with the music.  She had an interesting story, and we gladly accepted her invitation to spend some time together the next day. In the morning we met again and Lynda took us to a beautiful coastal arboretum, treating us to our first real view of the coast. Smelling the salt in the ocean breeze finally drove in the point that we had reached the west coast. It was clear on a map we had reached the west for a while now, but I think it takes the ocean exciting one’s senses for that realization to truly sink in. We walked along the coast and around the arboretum discussing the healing power of mindfulness. Lynda had many intriguing ideas to share on the subject, and I was overjoyed to hear she just began an interesting combination of performing her music with mindfulness exercises peacefully performed between songs. After listening to her cd the night before, I imagine the experience to be an amazingly calming journey. After a little while, we parted ways and Josh and I continued on down the coast toward Bandon. Mindfully taking in the smell the ocean the rest of our ride created the feeling of being part of the ocean’s breeze, floating along the coast.

Finally there

From Eureka, Ca (by Josh)

 After a morning of steady rains and splashing mud, we arrived in the city of Corvallis, OR. Though dripping wet, our spirits were shining as we pedaled through this university town where my former high school guitar teacher was waiting for Conor and I at a downtown sandwich shop. I wasn’t too sure how the conversation would go; it had been several years since I had seen Doug, my old teacher, and that was on another road trip (motorized) that I’d been on with my dad, who took off work so we could spend some time together just before I left for Basic Training. We didn’t discuss the military at length then, but I do recall Doug, a former army medic, saying that I would really enjoy shooting the weapons in training. But I was probably more concerned with the fact that Doug had also attended the church I grew up going to in Maryland before he moved out to Oregon. And the response from people at my old church about my spiritual journey has been frustrating.

part of my Christian Education

Several people from that church have told me that they are praying for me to find my way back on the right path. Another said by being a conscientious objector, I was being judgemental towards everyone else in the military and needed to understand that not everyone is perfect… ironic. There have been times where everything I said was discounted because I made the unforgivable sin of quoting Gandhi and Tolstoy, not real Christians. Some have simply stated that I’ve “gone liberal”, gone from “us” to “them” because apparently working for peace and nonviolence is on the wrong side of the religio-political litmus test. I was told regularly in church about the dangers of dating and non-Christian music, but never about the dangers of violence; the kids with even the strictest parents still played shoot-em-up video games and laughed and joked about killing people. In the school that was run by the church, we read books like The Faith of George W. Bush. There were also a few Vietnam Veterans who would occasionally bring in war memorabilia from their time in Vietnam and the school hallways would be filled with awe: “Mr. E is so cool, he told me the story of hanging off of a helicopter with one hand and shooting the Vietnamese with the other!”And with this less than pleasant context of how Doug and I knew each other in the first place, I was glad to see him, but wary that this lunch would dissolve into another conversation about needing to “respect the governing authorities” (when they’re members of the correct party). Not to say that I don’t appreciate when people of any point of view want to take the time to have a conversation with me, but I do struggle when people seem to repeat and condemn instead of converse and find common ground. To my pleasant surprise however, some of the first words out of his smiling mouth were “I think it’s really great what you guys are doing, I’ve always wondered why Christians aren’t at the very forefront of things like peacemaking and gun control and things like that… I’m pretty sure Jesus wouldn’t be clamoring for war.”

lunch with Doug

Soon laughing like old friends, our lunch together went by far too quickly and Doug had to leave to prepare for the camping trip he was going on later in the day. So we met up with the local Veterans For Peace who were hosting us, took care of some work, before heading to a potluck/speech. I try my best not to be preachy in my speeches, but I do bring up how religion has affected my growth. I tell the story of guarding a prisoner with a friend of mine whom I had gone to church with before deployment and one night, while guarding this prisoner, my friend started describing some pretty vicious things he wanted to do to the Iraqi man we had brought in (who we couldn’t find any evidence on and was eventually released). I started out with “American values”, saying “isn’t this man innocent until proven guilty?”. My friend scoffed that thought off, “he’s Iraqi, of course he’s guilty of something”. I then appealed to these ideas we had heard in church (or were at least printed in the Bibles sitting in the church) ideas like loving our enemies, praying for those who persecute us, blessed are the peacemakers, not returning evil for evil, and turning the other cheek. “Jesus might have turned his cheek once or twice” my friend explained with certainty, “but he certainly wouldn’t have let anybody punk him around”.

 

That conversation was a huge wake-up call for me that as ridiculous as my friend’s statement sounded, that I was living out the same mindset–I don’t get punked around, I do the punking–but I had a much more sophisticated way of saying the same thing. Another aspect to Jesus’ life that I had been ignoring was his position on killing; he didn’t calculate which wars were “just”, he was extremely far in the other direction warning us not only about physical killing, but even looking at somebody with hatred or judgement. That helped me realize that I was living hatefully and judgemental and that I needed to change. Again, hopefully not preachy, but these instances and thoughts helped bring me to where I am now.One man in attendance raised his hand afterwards and explained how atheists could come to the same position I had. I certainly didn’t disagree with him; I’ve found that I’ve had much in common atheists and people of other religions, just our ways of explaining that common spirituality are different and we can too easily get hung up on terms, titles, and phrases. I talked more with this man, Charlie, afterwards, and a friend he had brought with him, Omar, a high school foreign exchange student from Yemen. Perhaps I had initially thought Charlie was being too harsh on my mention of religion, but he began talking about positive experiences he’s had, including a visit to the Mosque where Omar attends. Along the trip I’ve heard many people ask why there aren’t more young people in these peace groups; Charlie and Omar had clearly become friends, and that is the foundation of peace: friendship and relationships, even when they are difficult.

visiting Charlie and Omar

Among many other things, Charlie mentioned that his house happened to be right about where we were planning on camping the next day, so after a good night’s sleep and a ride along the Oregon roads decorated with multi-colored trees and small mountains, we arrived in Cottage Grove, OR to meet back up with Charlie. Following a quick visit to a local bike shop to fix a broken spoke of mine and to give Conor front brakes that he’d been without, Charlie arrived and we all walked into a small town tavern. We chatted a little while with a man we had bumped into at the bike shop who had invited us to an evening of rum and saunas and with what seemed like half the town who all knew Charlie and his warm personality.We talked further about religion and Charlie took a very forgiving position despite some disheartening past experiences. Over the sounds of the blue grass band playing at the other end of the dimly lit tavern, Charlie told the story of going to a rally held by several Christians organizations with the rally cry of “taking back the country for God”. Charlie said he respected people’s rights to assembly, but also felt it was a faulty message of “taking back the country for God”, because it was never the Promised Land that some make it out to be in the first place. It’s one thing to have a belief, it’s another to twist words and history to garner support in ways it really doesn’t exist. I admire the words of many founding fathers and I admire the life and witness of Jesus, but I would hardly call the two synonymous or even similar. Backed by history, Charlie went among those gathered and began handing out flyers with quotes from Franklin, Jefferson, and several of the other founders to show that part of America’s beauty is that not everybody thinks the same and we can still work together while celebrating those differences. That wasn’t the version of America some of the Christians wanted and Charlie soon found himself taking blows and being knocked to the ground, still being beaten.I learned from my time with Charlie that he and I shared different ways of looking at the world on a number of issues… but that’s okay. The biggest problem, in my estimation, is not a faulty belief, but a lack of even wanting to examine that belief. It could have been easy for Charlie to write off Christianity after he was attacked by followers of the “Prince of Peace”, but he finished the story not with divisiveness, but with understanding. As off track as the message may have been and especially the violence for those not accepting that message, Charlie pointed out that there were some Christians there who did see the contradiction in what was going on and pulled the attackers away. I have heard some Christians say that the world is black-and-white, but I admired Charlie for not returning the same narrow way of viewing things and for confronting ideas when he believed they were untrue and for telling the full story, mentioning the positive and the negative and breaking beyond mere labels and stereotypes.In a world where labels define existence for many, perhaps we can try harder to judge not, lest we be judged and in the process, open ourselves up to inspiring, insightful people from all different backgrounds and beliefs.Or in religious terms…

“Anyone who speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but anyone who speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or in the age to come. Make a tree good and its fruit will be good, or make a tree bad and its fruit will be bad, for a tree is recognized by its fruit.” –The Son of Man (Matthew 12:32-33)

 

From Ashland (by Conor)

With the wind at our backs, we rolled into Salem a little early, but a kind invitation from a man named Verne kept us from being stranded on the streets until our talk later that night. Pedaling up to Verne‘s house, a man of impressive size was sitting on the porch and upon seeing us, he stood up and began walking our way. With outstretched arms, the man informed us his name was Bob, and he lead us into the back yard where we could park our bikes. Bob was renting a room in Verne’s house, and despite a massive frame that would’ve had him the leader or any biker gang, Bob carried a peaceful and welcoming demeanor. As we were unloading our bikes, Verne came out to meet us, physically the exact opposite of Bob, but of the same kindness. Inside, we gathered around an intriguing kitchen with mason jars pouring out of every crack and crevice. Verne, from the look of his kitchen, had an interesting take on food, which I couldn’t help but ask him about. He was a vegetarian it turned out, but he went far beyond that with his food consciousness. He began to explain to me the health benefits of a diet of raw greens, an effective educator, providing us with a surprisingly delicious spinach smoothie as a learning aid. He spoke of his personal deliverance from sickness when he tried a diet of greens, and went further explaining greens are what our digestive system is set up for. I knew this man was serious about his knowledge when, at the bottom of my second smoothie, I looked up and noticed Verne was not only halfway into his first. I asked why he wasn’t downing his delicious creation, and he informed me, “The digestive process starts in my mouth, I need to let food I eat  have enough time in my mouth to start the nutrition I intake properly.” Man, I remember learning that in biology, but it seemed to inconvenient to practice, this guys mindfulness was impressive. That wasn’t the last I’d see of mindfulness in this house it turned out.

After Josh and I cleaned up, we went into the living room to catch up with some computer work. Bob sat nearby working on his own computer, and we would engage in a little conversation between typing. Before long, however, I found my computer set aside as I talked with this fellow veteran. I couldn’t help but want to learn how this man, who had once trained martial arts to soldiers during Vietnam and much more, recently finished a twenty year prison sentence, exited as a calm Buddhist. He told me of a transformation after Claude AnShin Thomas a former, Vietnam door gunner and now Buddhist, came to his jail teaching mindfulness. A change swept over Bob, as he began practicing a constant meditation, being mindful of every action he took, anchoring himself in the present. Soon enough, as he spent his days in a walking meditation lapping the yard, other prisoners began to become curious about the state of peace this man created around him, and he was soon teaching prison gangs leaders this mindfulness. After many years of this lifestyle, Bob was telling me of a complete change of perception this constant meditation brought.

The time for the potluck and our talk came almost too fast, and Bob and I had to pull ourselves away from our conversation and start getting ready to head out. Soon enough we were told our ride was here, and stepping out of the front door, Josh and I had a little shock, our ride was a pedal powered tricycle with a covered bench seat in the back. It looked almost right out of national geographic, but polished up very nicely. Our driver, or should I say peddler, was a lovely lady who greeted us with a hug, like everyone else had that day, and without much ado, Michelle hopped on the trike and began taking us on our way. It was quite the surreal experience to be moving along by the power of the pedal without moving our legs. Surreal but welcome!

Soon enough we pulled up to the Friends Meeting House, and before long I was in conversation with Michelle, and I was memorized by her story. Her first marriage had taken her to Iraq, where she lived during the first Iraq invasion, coming back home to America for a while, but before long moving to Jordan and spending some time there. After a while she came back to the U.S., and when the U.S. started pushing for new conflicts in the Middle East, she began to take action right back. I was incredibly impressed with the action she decided to take, I had even heard tales of it from other people I had met on the trip. Michelle spent months camping in front of the State capital building steps, protesting the war with two almost concurrent 40 day fasts. She had many wonderful things to say of the fast and the way it connected her with those around her. We smiled as we spoke of how even without speaking, a positive influence simply sitting at a key place, like capital building steps, can influence every passerby.

 “I am a Vietnamese man!” exclaimed Mike, an earnest,frizzy-haired, caucasian, Vietnam War veteran; “if you come into my village and attack my family, I will kill you; if you drop napalm or agent orange on me or my family; I will kill you; if you massacre my people I…will… kill YOU!”

 

The question and answer session that Conor and I take after we share our about our inward transformations and the contextual histories we both went through to get to where we are now usually consist of queries about the distance we’ve travelled, our relationships with our families and military friends, or how to best help soldiers returning from war. But Mike was living a war within himself, and like the vortex he was in, inhaled all the energy in this candlelit room in residential Portland to his inner-conflict.But his pain, at first, seemed like an affront on Conor and myself; “if you had been through the shit that I have… I wish I could be peaceful and compassionate and you need to realize it’s a gift”

 

Mike articulated every word he uttered lingered, his stare was locked in a location that was far from Portland, OR and the effort he put into saying each word was as if he had to physically transport them from where he was in his mind thousands of miles and into the room of bewildered listeners. Then, shaking his fist, he constructed a statement with his frustrated energy and delivered it to the room “Gandhi did not have all the answers! If Gandhi was in charge instead of Ho Chi Min, there would be Burger Kings all over Vietnam right now, but I am treated like a traitor and judged for saying this…” and he continued with the announcement that he was a Vietnamese man and the list of who he would kill and when.

Portland... or is it?

I wanted to be compassionate to this man who was obviously in so much pain, but I also could not accept the proposition he presented that I would automatically live in hatred and desperation if only I had seen things as horrible as Mike had. So, in an attempt to neither concede hopelessness, nor judge or look down on where Mike was coming from, I responded by saying “you are right, I have not been through what you have. But I have seen my share of inhumanity, I’ve seen innocent people slaughtered and I’ve sunk into so much despair that my hands shook and my eye twitched, but we are never without hope. Again, you are right though that I haven’t been what you’ve been through; I have a family who listened to me and even if some think I’m misguided, they support me as a person and I definitely realize that that is a rare gift. But I also know that to kill because we feel threatened has motivated many people who I know, myself included, to fight these wars to begin with and that as long as we cling to that justification, nothing will ever change”.

Mike didn’t want a treatise on war though; gritted teeth and yelling turned to sobs as he brought to life the war that was still raging inside of him that the history books state ended over 35 years ago. He wanted to say it wasn’t over; and it isn’t. One of the most aggravating claims I hear people make is that driving in a car is more dangerous than going to war and that the death counts aren’t that bad. As if the effects of war can be measured by a digit! Anyone who compares the danger of war to the danger of driving a car has never taken the time to listen to the countless veterans like Mike; you can lose your life from both, but only one sabotages your soul and your entire sense of meaning. Cars don’t “roll grenades into huts filled with women and children” as Mike described; SUV drivers might harm people in accidents, but not with the cold intention that it takes to suffocate a prisoner of war until he passes out, kicking his genitals to shock him back to awareness, and repeating the process over and over again. Veteran drivers don’t commit suicide in droves because they did do what the road signs told them to do. And the soul staining atrocities from Vietnam, from Iraq, from every war in history pile higher and inflict far more anguish than the ticker at the bottom of your cable news that states: US casualties (the “bad guys” don’t count) ever could.

The wars rage on long after the negotiations that declare them over; and though they rage, anger is not the final form of a beast that refuses to die. Talk of war was on the lips of two others directly and indirectly affected by it whom we encountered in Portland, it’s vividness still flickered in their weathered eyes.

Portland

Brian, another Vietnam veteran, a captain whose life had been under threat by members of his own army as he began to speak out about the injustices of the war while deployed, welcomed us into his home nestled amidst a sprawling permaculture garden. Entering his home, moving past shelves and stacks of books, he met a younger man poised and ready to help share our stories, Randy. Randy’s brother had worked closely with General Tommy Franks; “He didn’t talk much about what he did, I think he realized pretty quickly not to ask questions” Randy began to explain, “but once when I asked him how work was going, he said ‘I don’t even know what is going on; one day we’re in these obscure countries killing people, and the next, trying to be their friends so we can get what we want. It finally overwhelmed him and he killed himself”.

Both men had experienced deep pain, but pain does not equal hopelessness (though that may be an important step in the process). Shining forth a positive transformation, they began to explain Portland Bright Neighbors, a networking program where locals could post events, carpool information, tools to lend out, and lists of other ways to connect their community.  http://www.brightneighbor.com/ War was an ongoing experience that neither of them wanted others to go through–on either side of the gun–and they labored to address it’s roots. If we fight over resources, let’s make the best use of what we already have so that we don’t have to take other people’s. Through sharing, gardening, simplifying, and educating, tangible alternatives to consumerism and it’s costs were brightening up the neighborhoods of Portland.

Portland's bright neighborhoods

Einstein said “problems cannot be solved with the same consciousness that created them”. We got a taste of Mike’s pain as he felt so disgraced by the way he and his fellow soldiers had acted, that he viewed himself as a countryman of the nation he harmed. We tasted it, but the premise that pain must equals rage couldn’t digest for me. I haven’t sought to let love guide my life simply because I haven’t experienced enough horrors. The horrors are the products of greed, fear, and hatred and love is not the absence of pain, but a new way of life. When no man is my enemy, I have no need to kill. When I am inwardly satisfied, if it comes to being killed, I can be killed in peace. When my own army is the enemy, as Mike had described, love asks what is causing the injustice? How can my friends and my country commit these acts or ignore their realities when they are exposed? In a sense, when we hear about these injustices, if we live with love, the stories that Mike told, that Brian, Randy, Conor, or myself, and many others can tell, should be all we need to hear to want to change. But the apathy and dismissal Mike and almost every other veteran who has opened up and shared these painful experiences have been met with only reinforces the negative outlook that these injustices produce.

War still exists, but we don’t want to understand. War still exists whether we want to acknowledge it or not. War still exists, but we are not hopeless. War still exists and if we return hatred and apathy with more of the same it always will. War still exists, but if we live in a different consciousness than the powers that created it then the ghosts of the past will transform the heartbeat of the future, and heartbeat that you are aware of now.

 

 

RESIGNATION LETTER FROM U.S. FOREIGN SERVICE OFFICER MATTHEW P. HOH
By U.S. Foreign Service Officer Matthew P. Hoh, Senior Civilian
Representative, Afghanistan

Washington Post
October 27, 2009 (letter dated Sept. 10)

Dear Ambassador Powell,

It is with great regret and disappointment I submit my resignation
from my appointment as a Political Officer in the Foreign Service and
my post as the Senior Civilian Representative for the US Government in
Zabul Province.  I have served six of the previous ten years in
service to our country overseas, to include deployment as a U.S.
Marine office and Department of Defense civilian in the Euphrates and
Tigris River Valleys of Iraq in 2004-2005 and 2006-2007.  I did not
enter into this position lightly or with any undue expectations nor
did I believe my assignment would be without sacrifice, hardship or
difficulty.  However, in the course of my five months of service in
Afghanistan, in both Regional Commands East and South, I have lost
understanding of and confidence in the strategic purposes of the
United States’ presence in Afghanistan. I have doubts and reservations
about our current strategy and planned future strategy, but my
resignation is based not upon how we are pursuing this war, but why
and to what end.  To put simply:  I fail to see the value or the worth
in continued U.S. casualties or expenditures of resources in support
of the Afghan government in what is, truly, a 35-year old civil war.

This fall will mark the eighth year of U.S. combat, governance, and
development operations within Afghanistan.  Next fall, the United
States’ occupation will equal in length the Soviet Union’s own
physical involvement in Afghanistan.  Like the Soviets, we continue to
secure and bolster a failing state, while encouraging an ideology and
system of government unknown and unwanted by its people.

If the history of Afghanistan is one great stage play, the United
States is no more than a supporting actor, among several previously,
in a tragedy that not only pits tribes, valleys, clans, villages, and
families against one another, but, from at least the end of King Zahir
Shah’s reign, has violently and savagely pitted the urban, secular,
educated, and modern of Afghanistan against the rural, religious,
illiterate, and traditional.  It is this latter group that composes
and supports the Pashtun insurgency.  The Pashtun insurgency, which is
composed of multiple, seemingly infinite, local groups, is fed by what
is perceived by the Pashtun people as a continued and sustained
assault, going back centuries, on Pashtun land, culture, traditions
and religion by internal and external enemies.  The U.S. and NATO
presence and operations in Pashtun valleys and villages, as well as
Afghan army and police units that are led and composed of non-Pashtun
soldiers and police, provide an occupation force against which the
insurgency is justified.  In both RC East and South, I have observed
that the bulk of the insurgency fights not for the white banner of the
Taliban, but rather against the presence of foreign soldiers and taxes
imposed by an unrepresentative government in Kabul.

The United States military presence in Afghanistan greatly contributes
to the legitimacy and strategic message of the Pashtun insurgency.  In
a like manner our backing of the Afghan government in its current form
continues to distance the government from the people.  The Afghan
government’s failings, particularly when weighed against the sacrifice
of American lives and dollars, appear legion and metastatic:

   * Glaring corruption and unabashed graft;

   * A President whose confidants and chief advisors comprise drug
lords and war crimes villains, who mock our own rule of law and
counternarcotics efforts;

   * A system of provincial and district leaders constituted of local
power brokers, opportunists and strongmen allied to the United States
solely for, and limited by, the value of our USAID and CERP contracts
and for whose own political and economic interests stand nothing to
gain from any positive or genuine attempts at reconciliation; and

   * The recent election process dominated by fraud and discredited
by low voter turnout, which has created an enormous victory for our
enemy who now claims a popular boycott and will call into question
worldwide our government’s military, economic and diplomatic support
for an invalid and illegitimate Afghan government.

Our support for this kind of government, coupled with a
misunderstanding of the insurgency’s true nature, reminds me horribly
of our involvement with South Vietnam; an unpopular and corrupt
government we backed at the expense of our Nation’s own internal
peace, against an insurgency whose nationalism we arrogantly and
ignorantly mistook as a rival to our own Cold War ideology.

I find specious the reasons we ask for bloodshed and sacrifice from
our young men and women in Afghanistan.  If honest, our stated
strategy of securing Afghanistan to prevent al-Qaeda resurgence or
regrouping would require us to additionally invade and occupy western
Pakistan, Somalia, Sudan, Yemen, etc.  Our presence in Afghanistan has
only increased destabilization and insurgency in Pakistan where we
rightly fear a toppled or weakened Pakistani government may lose
control of its nuclear weapons.  However, again, to follow the logic
of our stated goals we should garrison Pakistan, not Afghanistan.
More so, the September 11th attacks, as well as the Madrid and London
bombings, were primarily planned and organized in Western Europe; a
point that highlights the threat is not one tied to traditional
geographic or political boundaries.  Finally, if our concern is for a
failed state crippled by corruption and poverty and under assault from
criminal and drug lords, then if we bear our military and financial
contributions to Afghanistan, we must reevaluate and increase our
commitment to and involvement in Mexico.

Eight years into war, no nation has ever known a more dedicated, well
trained, experienced and disciplined military as the U.S. Armed
Forces.  I do not believe any military force has ever been tasked with
such a complex, opaque, and Sisyphean mission as the U.S. military has
received in Afghanistan.  The tactical proficiency and performance of
our Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines is unmatched and
unquestioned.  However, this is not the European or Pacific theaters
of World War II, but rather is a war for which our leaders, uniformed,
civilian and elected, have inadequately prepared and resourced our men
and women.  Our forces, devoted and faithful, have been committed to
conflict in an indefinite and unplanned manner that has become a
cavalier, politically expedient, and Pollyannaish misadventure.
Similarly, the United States has a dedicated and talented cadre of
civilians, both U.S. government employees and contractors, who believe
in and sacrifice for their mission, but they have been ineffectually
trained and led with guidance and intent shaped more by the political
climate in Washington, D.C., than in Afghan cities, villages,
mountains, and valleys.

“We are spending ourselves into oblivion” a very talented and
intelligent commander, one of America’s best, briefs every visitor,
staff delegation, and senior officer.  We are mortgaging our Nation’s
economy on a war, which, even with increased commitment, will remain a
draw for years to come.  Success and victory, whatever they may be,
will be realized not in years, after billions more spent, but in
decades and generations.  The United States does not enjoy a national
treasury for such success and victory.

I realize the emotion and tone of my letter and ask that you excuse
any ill temper.  I trust you understand the nature of this war and the
sacrifices made by so many thousands of families who have been
separated from loved ones deployed in defense of our Nation and whose
homes bear the fractures, upheavals, and scars of multiple and
compounded deployments.  Thousands of our men and women have returned
home with physical and mental wounds, some that will never heal or
will only worsen with time.  The dead return only in bodily form to be
received by families who must be reassured their dead have sacrificed
for a purpose worthy of futures lost, loved vanished, and promised
dreams unkept.  I have lost confidence such assurances can anymore be
made.  As such, I submit my resignation.

Sincerely,

Matthew P. Hoh
Senior Civilian Representative
Zabul Province, Afghanistan

From Port Orford, OR (by Conor)

Josh and I were getting pretty full on some eggs and toast with jam while Beth, our host the past night, was explaining, “Now my husband and I have an interesting dynamic, but I had to just butt in when he said ‘Do you have anything else to say to anybody now?’ That’s too much. You don’t want to control the process, you just want to facilitate it.” Beth was revisiting and elaborating on a bit of our conversation last night. She and her husband Paul had been explaining their work with restorative justice to us the night before over dinner, and Josh and I hadn’t gotten enough of it, so it was once again the conversation over breakfast, sadly Paul was left out of this one. There was work to be done in the restorative justice world.

Over our breakfast, Beth was explaining an example of the restorative justice process in more detail. Apparently when a crime is committed and the wrongdoer admits his guilt, the restorative process can begin. At this point, the victim and the offender are brought together, but not just that, the victims family, the offenders family, all of those whose life has been affected in some way by the incident, are brought together as well. Everyone sits in a nice big circle (I think).  The offender is then asked what he thinks he did and how he feels about it, often expressing a sorrow for himself because of the suffering he/she is going through because of being caught. At this point, the victim gets to explain how the offenders actions hurt them, and in turn, each of the victims family members or people affected get to explain how the offenders actions have affected their lives, and then even the offenders family lets the offender know how their lives have been affected by these actions. Finally, the offender is asked if he has anything else he’d like to say. This is where Beth corrected Paul, saying that asking the offender if he/she has anything to say to anyone, would be to directive, pushing the offender to say something rather than express what he/she is truly experiencing. (Though when Paul said this, it was a simple slip of the tongue, he doesn’t say this during the process) Upon hearing the dramatic effect the offenders actions have had on the lives of others, Beth and Paul explained that in all cases they have ever known, the offenders are deeply apologetic for what was done. There is a dramatic, miraculous change from the beginning of the process whereas before the offender thought their actions were of little consequence.  Now the truly interesting part comes out, the victim and offender agree on the sentencing to be carried out. Many times, the victim just wants to see a positive change of consciousness, and that is enough, other times the victim may have the offender work for property damaged or any other number of things, and the sentence must be agreed by both parties. Our restorative justice educatory and reformist  hosts say the amazing thing about this process is that it never breaks down. Paul and Beth each had instances where they would leave the room at the end of the session, and come back with the victim and offender in each others arms. The recidivism rate of areas where restorative justice is amazingly low, and I certainly encourage everyone to look into it.

Filled up on eggs and toast, as well as brain food, Josh and I struck out for a two day ride to Portland, during which we were met with a breathtakingly gorgeous ride amidst trees reaching over our heads to create a beautiful green arched pathway. We dipped off into the woods to camp, and the temperate rainforest of Oregon provided us with a rather soft forest floor to lay on, thick ivy and ferns padding the forest floor. It’s been getting dark pretty early these days and the soft forest floor was a real treat, seeing as we have to spend about 11 hours in the dark lying on it. After a lovely, and long, night sleep we were up and on the road again.

The closer and closer we rode to Portland, the more and more nerves began to grow as the traffic became hairier and the paved shoulder became more narrow. Then we hit Portland, and it was if the seas had parted. Bike lanes were suddenly crisscrossing every street, with wide, smooth paths. It was no wonder that our host for the night, a fellow peace biker, on a world wide scale, had found a home here. After a few changes in our route through Portland, thanks to kind strangers not wanting us to subject ourselves to the treacherous route I have chosen via Google Maps, we arrived at our hosts house. Tad was quick to greet us with a hug and a choice of a hot meal or a hot shower. This guy was definitely a biker. It turned out that Josh and I were the first cyclists Tad had ever hosted, but after traveling much of the world on his bike being hosted himself, he had a pretty good idea on how to make us feel at home, and was also graciously prepared for our appetites. Sitting down to dinner with Tad’s girlfriend and sister, we all had a marvelous meal discussing our different travels and the views we gained from them. After a little while, we decided to go hang out in the living room, and hanging on the wall by the front door, in place of a coat rack or key hanger, was a violin. I inquired as to who would love to play so much that a violin would be put in such a prominent place in the house, and Tad replied that it was he who played. Tad had been playing for about year and a half, and hearing that, the similarities between us were just compounding. It seemed that we might just be at each others skill levels, and with that, it took me about two seconds before my mandolin was out and Tad and I were in the midst of a little jam session. After a few jams as a violin mandolin duo, Tad broke out his harmonica he used during his peace travels to fill in the gaps with some music, and we wasted time away, trading riffs into the night.