For more than three years, I've stood with Women In Black,
a weekly vigil for peace, justice and human rights. I remember years of joining anti-war demonstrations. I've marched, lit
candles, chanted, sung, danced and clapped, shouted, carried placards and a huge paper mache' puppet on a pole. To make things
simple, I settled on an all-purpose protest flag - a picture of Earth as seen from space.
But this is the first
time I've simply stood for what I believe in.
My turning point came just before the U.S. attacked Iraq. Millions
of us took to the streets from London to Lisbon, from Sydney to Singapore in a massive peaceful protest of the impending war.
I wept watching the images of one protest after another, thrilled to have been a part of a clear global outpouring of
anti-war sentiment. With a sort of hopeful certainty, I trusted that such worldwide unanimity would at least give the White
House pause.
Then we attacked Iraq anyway. I felt the shock and awe in different way: Shocked at the ineffectiveness
of all the skillfully organized protests. In awe at the stubborn callousness of the American war machine, at the breach between
those wielding weapons and the people bleeding and dying in Baghdad.
The blank, mask-like faces of indifference
strike a particular note of terror in my heart. I quail at this coldly murderous manifestation of fear; my mind goes blank
as I contemplate trying to transform it.
Slowly it dawned on me that my task was not transforming that indifference.
Mine, as Gandhi pointed out, is to be the change I want to see. And that change is Peace. But what does peace look like? How can an ordinary woman in everyday
America embody peace?
My
friends and I began discussing the power of being for something, of standing for peace, not marching against
war. The powerful images of La Mujers, the women who stood silent in the streets of towns and villages around Chile, holding
photographs of their sons and nephews, husbands and brothers who had been "disappeared," inspired us. Their idea
spread. Women in Israel, in Palestine, in Ireland, stood quietly in public squares and plazas, dressed in black.
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Laugh as the Righteous Mothers reveal
more about women's
peace efforts.
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Port Angeles Women in Black stand in the heart
of town every Saturday morning.
The history of Women In Black made it clear
that calling it an "organization" was mostly a linguistic convenience. Far from organized, these first vigils were
women who simply accompanied one another in grief, and in longing for peace. They left it to others to see their open
hearts through their black garments. And
so Women In Black - Port Angeles was born.
At first, some protested our wearing black: Too depressing, they
said, too ominous. "Are you in mourning?" "You look so gloomy no one will want to join you." As the
comments increased, we questioned ourselves as well. Then a psychologist in our group said, "The response that black
evokes encourages one to look deeply within, fearlessly facing the shadow. This is the work that we must face. This is where
we, as the human race, have mistaken our identity and have come to believe that we are unworthy, unlovable, unacceptable.
Facing these shadows, we befriend ourselves." Some
women dropped away, others saw people's misgivings as a reflection of the power of our presence, of our ability to make people
feel uncomfortable.
Our physical comfort was another issue; some of the women who stand are in their
70s and 80s. As the winds of our first winter whipped around, I continued next page
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