The Journey Home

I put the van in park in front of Phil Berrigan House. It was 2 am, but the street lights made it feel like day. I stepped out of the van while simultaneously thanking God for our safe arrival back in Des Moines. The trip was long; time seemed to drag on in the unforgettable maroon upholstery ship, I was happy to say my last goodbye. A new name would soon be its title. 

The trip started with little affair, and also not that much planning, on our part at least.
Richard arrived in Des Moines after a grueling three days of van repair in Omaha.
A 2005 Chevrolet Cargo Van would be our home for the next couple days, so we thought. 

Southern Iowa received a late November snow storm, but the roads were cleared.
Kansas City was congested by rush hour traffic. Southern Oklahoma hills tested the
engines strength, and the bright casinos displayed the van’s rear wheel quarter panel
rust. Ryna-Ria took comfortable naps in the blacked out cargo space. 

Jim, a retired professor welcomed us in San Antonio. San Antonio Ethiopian food
filled our bellies,and a comfortable bed prepared us for the next leg. Texas is the
second biggest state in the U.S., my bones felt it. A glimpse of the Houston Catholic
Worker gave us awareness of the Catholic Worker spectrum. Palm trees greeted
us in Brownsville, TX; an unintentional four day pit stop ensued. Border patrol rejected
our too-heavy-and-no-back-windows van. We felt the failure. Richard is our guide.
Ryna-Ria spots a 1980s GMC conversion van in the parking lot of a big box store.

One and half days later we are in Mexico, happy enough. The cores of old volcanoes
dot the dusty scenery, what an adventure.

Pothole after pothole causing a shower of rusty metal to fall from the van’s interior
upon my bare feet. Orange groves fill my lungs with their pungent fragrance.
The port city of Tampico displays a different side of Mexico, dry, dusty, grimy,
and malodorous. I am sure an oasis exists, there are always oases. 

Vera Cruz and then an 8 hour traffic jam puts a damper on our day, but not
before a flat tire can seal it. Tuxtla Gutiérrez is a 70º difference from Iowa.
San Cristobal de Las Casas welcomes us with mild weather, oak and pine trees in
every direction. 

Casa de Camillo Torres preserves its beauty as it ages. Avocados, limes,
vegetables, and dogs greet us at the gate. There is a fire burning inside,
and a freshly cooked meal awaits us. Araceli is a wonderful chef, and
much more. Three days passed and the road called us back. 

A bribe was paid and a beach was walked on the journey home.  

Prophetic Dream Witness

A speech I gave in front of the Iowa Air National Guard Drone Command Center.

Good afternoon, I first want to recognize all of the folks that have come before us,
all of the peacemakers: Berrigan Brothers, Franz Jagastatter, Ammon Hennacy,
Dorothy Day, Indigenous people - the Meskwaki, Martin Luther King Jr., Thomas
Merton, and many more. I also want to recognize the peacemakers with us today
at the Drone Command Center and around the world: Julie Brown, Daniel Hale,
Chelsea Manning, King’s Bay Plowshare 7, Kathy Kelly, Carol and Ardeth, Brian
Terrell, Greg Boertje-Obed, Four Necessity Valve Turners, John Dear, Karl Kabet,
Jeff Dietrich, Steve Baggerly, Mike and Barb, John LaForge, Jessica and Ruby,
Elliot Adams, Ann Wright, and many, many more, especially the women, because
they make up the majority of peacemakers and grassroots organizers. We also
give thanks to the birds and the animals of this beautiful planet. 

There are also other things that fly high above in the sky. These things include unmanned
aerial vehicles and drones, killer drones. These drones are being flown right now,
controlled by people right in front of us, behind those wretched black gates.
They search for people to kill 24/7, they are relentless, and they are secret.
Flying in places such as Iraq, Iran, Syria, Afghanistan, Somalia, and probably
many more places that are kept secret and hidden. However, we know the pilots
are not secret or hidden. They shop in the same stores we do, right after bombing
a wedding! We have heard from the victims, and we have heard from the pilots,
and the facts are that both sides end up suffering, either from broken bodies, broken
minds, or both. 

The surrounding conflict has seeped into my dreams. Dreams have a prophetic tone
to them. Martin Luther King’s dream struck a nerve with people, mainly
African-Americans, at his famous DC speech. You could call it prophetic dream witness. 

I woke up at 5 a.m. on a rainy Tuesday morning in April, which is an hour to a
couple hours early for my normal waking hour. My dream had a great impact on me.
I think it was the cry of the masses, the cry of over two million people sitting in jail
in the United States, the cry of the newborn infant and mother in a war-torn country
such as Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, or Palestine, the list goes on. 

As I was startled awake by the subconscious cry of the enslaved masses, the
downtrodden, I had a flashback to another dream. In late 2016, I woke up with
my eyes full of tears and a wail coming from deep inside; it was an all-out weeping
moment. I don’t remember much of the dream. I remember all of the beaten and
battered faces of women, children, and men. My mind at that time connected these
faces to those of Syria, now an utterly devastated land, wrecked from all sides by
Russia, the United States, Assad, the military industrial complex, opportunistic war
lords, and false prophets, prophets of violence and doom. 

The tears streaming down my face were a small price to pay for my inaction. I didn’t
keep this dream to myself. I shared it with my faith community, Manhattan Mennonite
Church. I read their faces upon my delivery. They knew the pain, the feeling of sand
running through the creases of our fingers, justice does the same. 

So here I am again, but different location, yet advancement is happening.
I no longer follow the star of the liberals, I follow dreams. Dreams of a simplified
people around the eradication of poverty, war, industrial agriculture, prisons, police,
guns, landlords, nuclear weapons, and the need for unending “progress,” and let’s
not forget the slow takeover of screens, Google, Facebook, and their ilk. 

The woman in my rainy Tuesday dream was reaching out for help, her baby wasn’t
crying, though he should have been, and there was also blood dripping down her thighs.
We were outside a hospital, yet no one came out to rescue her. Meanwhile, a group of
soldiers marched by, and not even a glance was made toward this unravelling situation.
The new mother collapsed, and people came rushing from behind me to come to her aid.
I was looking up, and then I awoke. 

I give some thought to the dreams I have, but most of the time they pass by like
windy Kansas clouds. This one hung over me like a sheet of storm clouds. 

Our continued effort at the Des Moines Catholic Worker to serve those in need,
coupled with a continued presence at the Iowa Air National Guard Drone
Command Center helps to create “a society where it is easier to do good,”
and also continue the deep calling of the most unheard suffering masses, to be a
witness, a prophetic dream witness. 

So I stand here, after hearing the cries for help, and I am reminded about Jesus’
call for nonviolence and love for thy enemy. 

Peter Maurin’s Easy Essay titled, “Big Shots and Little Shots,” helps me to
remember the reason we promote and practice nonviolent tactics: 

Big Shots and Little Shots

When the big shots

Become bigger shots

Then the little shots

Become littler shots.

And when the little shots

Become littler shots

Because the big shots

Become bigger shots

Then the Little shots

Get mad at the big shots. 

And when the little shots

Get mad at the big shots

Because the big shots

By becoming bigger shots

Make the little shots

Littler shots

They shoot the big shots

Full of little shots. 

But by shooting the big shots

Full of little shots

The little shots

Do not become big shots

They make everything shot. 

I am going to try and enter the base today, to try and stop those inside from
committing these horrendous acts of violence, secret violence. They won’t let
me in by the door, so I have to use other means. 

Think of a burning building, children inside, children being killed from inside.
Stopping the killing is of utmost importance, it is needed! 

On my back I have the Lovarchy symbol, a symbol for peace and unity, ruled by no one. 

As we attempt to stop those hateful acts, I think of our Creator who showed the
most love for us. I must act on my conscience. I call on all to join me, to join this
cause to save our planet from the number one polluter, to rebel against extinction! 

May the peace of the universe be with you. May Krsna be with you! May
God be with you! Hare Krsna! Shalom! I love you all!

A Long Conversation...

Three months have passed since I moved into the Des Moines Catholic Worker,
and I was feeling rather antsy having not yet shut down the Drone Command Center
in Des Moines. Even though I know the impossibility of shutting it down myself,
I still have hope.
I carried that hope with me to an initial one-man protest at a local musical festival in
downtown Des Moines, unsurprisingly called 80/35 (a reference to the meeting of
Interstate 80 and Interstate 35). I carried a small sign with painted words relaying
this important message, “Drones Fly, Children Die”.
The sun began careening toward the horizon as I walked by fellow festival goers.
The sign garnered a few glances and an occasional mumble.
A young guy even asked about it, so I explained to him about the use of military
armed drones. I even spotted him a copy of the Via Pacis.
The festival grounds were only a couple city blocks; soon I had covered all of the stages.
I took a seat on the curb in front of one of the smaller stages with my sign displayed,  
two other Catholic Worker interns eventually joined my place on the curb.
The sun’s light had fallen behind the horizon, and a middle-aged man
and woman approached our little group after noticing the sign.
Unbeknownst to us, our following conversation would last nearly ninety minutes.
At first, the couple was only talking to me, as the other interns were
involved in a conversation with some acquaintances, but by the end
of the conversation, we were all taking turns chiming in.
The gentlemen spoke the most. He asked about the purpose of the sign,
and I told him it was to reveal the truth about the tactics of drone warfare.
The tactics include the targeting of an individual/group, killing the individual/group, and
then assessing the exploded target. This fact is taken directly from the mission statement of
the 132nd Wing, located near the Des Moines International Airport.
The gentlemen did not negate this statement, but he did negate the severity
at which drones are blamed for civilian deaths. His stance was that drones
should be used to kill the “bad guys,” even if the person killing

them is the judge, jury, and executioner. This idea seemed to stem from
American exceptionalism, i.e., the belief that the United States is above
international law and is a unique case compared to all other sovereign nations.
Be it noted, the United States is a unique nation, we do have free speech laws,
yet the only true free speech comes from those who have money.

I explained that drone hellfire missiles in other countries create unrest
and hatred towards the United States, creating a greater supply of people wanting
to combat the country in some manner, for example, by joining ISIS.
This creates a cycle of violence in which the United States government has complete
dominance through the use of more powerful weapons; this was the narrative
I tried to draw throughout the conversation. His response was an “us vs. them” statement:
he would rather support bombing perceived “enemies” and civilians than seek peace.

Thirty minutes or so went by, and the whole truth was finally out.
The man admitted that he is a drone pilot at the Des Moines Drone Command Center.
I was astonished! We had been talking to a man who
is possibly a murderer of civilians by an eye in the sky! He later admitted to
watching a man commit suspected “terrorist activity.”
After months of watching, more like spying, he was ordered to push the
button and end the man’s life.

We pleaded with him about the inaccuracy of drone missiles and the
possible miscalculations that could lead to civilian deaths, such as the infamous
bombings of numerous wedding parties. For the drone pilot
(who was also an Iraq War veteran), the violence produced by the United States
is a perfectly logical course of action to promote the United States government’s
form of peace. This logic is similar to the idea that nuclear weapons bring about
peace and balance in our small suffocating planet.

There were many more points made in the hour and half conversation,
such as fellow drone pilots experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
We concluded with offering our support for him
and his partner if they ever begin to question their role in the
United States’ drone warfare. Neither of our views changed about the subject,
but hopefully we planted a seed of peace that may one day lead
to peacemaking.