DRUMS NOT BOMBS

pstrongRally for Peace in Frisco/strong/p pDIV align="left" TABLE cellpadding="5"TR VALIGN="TOP"TDIMG SRC= "../sites/default/files/arch_img/502/photo_1_supplement.jpg" //td/trTR VALIGN="TOP"TD/td/trTR VALIGN="TOP"TDTR VALIGN="TOP"TD pby Liam Holt/p pAs I walked up from the 16th Street BART station towardsbr / Dolores Park where the Peace Not War Rally was beingbr / Held, on Saturday September29th 2001, I walk past peoplebr / already descending the hill. It is mid-daybr / and they are heading for something to eat. They smile,br / they wear bright clothes and face paints. They stillbr / carry their banners, some folded now, some still swungbr / high, some resting back on sore shoulders. Along thebr / streets the traffic signs and road markings arebr / modified, painted and crayoned so that they morph intobr / peace symbols. Bright words are chalked in yellow andbr / white across the sidewalk IHate comes from fear:br / Strength comes from love/i./p pI arrive late to the site but, just as many arebr / leaving the park, many more are still making their waybr / over to the rally. Several thousand people must have been inbr / attendance over the course of the day. As I approachbr / the park I can already hear the voices boom from thebr / stage, resounding around a radius of three or fourbr / blocks. The speakers admonish those who cry for war.br / They speak to reason. “Why are US troops stationed inbr / Mecca and Jerusalem?” we are asked. “Oil,”thebr / answer. /p pThe speaker goes on to encourage the audiencebr / to vote for Proposition 1 in the November elections. Propositionbr / I would reclaim energy independence for Sanbr / Francisco by allowing us to choose our energy source, bybr / ending the corporate profiteering of our electricitybr / supply and by opting out of a system that has caused so muchbr / conflict and pain. All around the field people ask mebr / to register to vote. I can’t, I’m not a citizen./p pI walk over to the main stage. On the way I pass rowsbr / of stands offering a hoard of information: pamphletsbr / and leaflets against war, against globalization;br / petitions for the release of Mumia Abul-Jamal;br / anti-war booklets and zines. /p pAll along the peripherybr / of the field there are musicians and artists, singersbr / and dancers, “conscious citizens”. I make my way to thebr / top of the hill where a young man beams. He isbr / throwing bagels and loaves of bread into the park. Abr / kid drops his hackey sack and playfully bounces abr / Hostess product off his head, grinning back at thebr / food distributor. Further down the slope a small childbr / leans from her mother’s grip and pulls free of herbr / hand. She kneels and starts to organize the scatteredbr / foodstuff into neat piles. The woman next to mebr / laughs, “She doesn’t understand. She just wants to bebr / neat.” /p pThe man with the crates of produce grins andbr / continues to throw the red cabbages and bright yellowbr / leeks into the field. People scoop packs ofbr / Wonderbread and blueberry muffins into their arms andbr / stuff them into their packs. I ask the woman next tobr / me what is going on. She tells me that he’s with Food not Bombs. Hebr / picks up food that grocery stores would otherwisebr / throw out—the day’s bread, foods on the cusp ofbr / their expirtion date—and delivers it to those who needbr / it: the poor, the homeless, those sitting in thebr / scalding September sun to advocate for peace./p pFurther behind the stage reposes the Veterans forbr / Peace bus. A group of ten to fifteen men and woman sitbr / cross-legged behind bongos and make-shift drums of allbr / shapes and sounds. They hammer out an indefatigablebr / rhythm. A tall, smiling man moves among the crowd ofbr / dancers with his five-year-old child raised upon hisbr / shoulders. She grins and claps her hands, swaying herbr / head back and forth; her feet kick against hisbr / shoulders. He slow steps the best he can, holds herbr / steady by her waist. The musicians on the main stagebr / kick into one of their short, energetic, inter-speechbr / sets. The bongo players behind me pause and segue intobr / the rhythm of the main group. The dancers keep onbr / dancing./p pFrom the stalls and volunteers I have collected abr / plethora of information. I have been made aware of abr / multitude of organizations, coalitions andbr / brotherhoods. All of them speak for justice, for love,br / for peace. Everywhere there are slogans. They are onbr / the banners, shirts, stickers and balloons carried bybr / all. They are waved, stuck and worn by people of allbr / colors and ages, by men, woman and children. Theirbr / message is stated in a 100 ways but their meaningbr / is clear: INo more parentless children; Our diversitybr / is America’s strength; Don’t turn tragedy into war. Ibr / am struck by the number of flags/i. /p pAll around me thebr / star spangled banner is flown. The demonstrators arebr / proud of their country. They are true patriots, butbr / they are also citizens of the world—they want tobr / protect themselves but they also want to defend the brotherhood and sisterhoodbr / of man and woman. Across one shirt, emblazoned with the starsbr / and stripes, are these words: IPeace is patriotic/i./p pOn the walk home down 19th Street, I see a mural on abr / church. The mural is amazing, a naked woman and man—br / Mary and Joseph, two stories high—reach above abr / window. Above the window a laughing baby Jesus floatsbr / in a halo of light. On the church doors below thisbr / striking motif are the giant white letters ILovebr / Arabs/i/p pI reflect upon the messages of the day, the voicesbr / still ring in my ears: IWhen they say censorship andbr / surveillance, we say, Freedom! When they instigatebr / racism, we say, Solidarity!/i I remember the chalk marksbr / on the pavement, I had stopped to read them:br / IHate comes from fear. True strength can only come frombr / love/i.br / /p/td/tr/td/tr/table/div/p