Thanks for Giving

In the week leading up to Thanksgiving, Gaza's been on my mind.  A good friend was there - stayed there when most of the international staff evacuated because they felt the bombings made the risk-good balance tip towards 'risk'. The risk-good balance is, admittedly, a luxury of human rights activists: we get to determine when the risk to our life, health and bodily integrity outweighs the good we're likely to be able to accomplish. If it tips too far to 'risk', we can leave, unlike those we are leaving behind and unlike our military counterparts.  But while others determined the balance tipped too far into 'risk,' my friend stayed, giving interviews and sending our press releases about the conditions in an effort to raise international awareness.

And I prayed.  Because that's all I had to offer.

My sister likely sat off his coast. I don't really know - I don't get to know where she is, ever, when she's at sea.  I get to know an 'arena' or 'field' of service, or some other super Navy terminology that I don't know like "XIFOSD" which likely stands for something like Extra Intense Fighting Of Said Defenses" (yeah... you can tell how much I understand about the acronyms in her job).  I know the fleet she's assigned to - thanks to some newspaper article written around the time they deployed - but the Sixth Fleet is the entirety of the Mediterranean and consists - according to the Navy itself - of 40 ships, 175 aircraft and 21,000 people.  So maybe she was off Gaza; maybe she was pulled into Italy; maybe she was by Gibraltar. I don't get to know, so of course, I always assume the worse. And I assumed she and the entire 40 ships of the fleet and all their weaponry was all sitting off the coast of Gaza.

During Skype calls with my friend, I would hear this "clink clink."  It would have been nothing to me - a drippy faucet, something falling to the floor - except my friend asked, "Did you hear that?" He explained it was pretty close. It sounded different than I expected. It wasn't a loud boom, but a soft "clink clink" and it would happen again and again as we talked.  He could hear the drones but Skype's audio wasn't strong enough for me to hear.

As I thought about them sitting out there - miles from each other - I couldn't help but think of how thankful I am for each of them and for the service they offer. Once again, I know this leaves me sitting on a particular side of human rights activists. Many do not trust the military - of any country - and their skepticism has legitimate underpinnings: years of military coups in a variety of countries, disturbing videos showing the commission of war crimes, and the distribution of photos depicting torture give cause to those who distrust the military.  It is easy to paint those who serve with broad strokes: heroes or villains. White hats or black ones. Little room to recognize that the majority - of any military - may fit one mold while a minority break it.  The same, of course, is true for human rights activists - we just hate to admit that out loud sometimes because the cause!, the cause! is so noble, never realizing that when we do that we are only replicating the actions of those we so often denounce.

So, yes there are good and bad of both the military and human rights activists.  And yet, this week, all I kept thinking was how lucky I was to know dedicated, intelligent and willing servants for both fields.  Human rights activists, though, don't get internet memes or Christmas ornaments reminding people of the dedicated and awesome work they do. Probably because most people hate us as we have this insane habit of always siding with the underdog, but still...

So, I'm sharing the picture below - one of the many that popped up on my newsfeed thanking the US military for their service on this day of Thanks - to give thanks to those who work in the service of freedom overseas, regardless of how that work is described or what the title that comes before their name looks like.



And I'm going to take the unusual step and share two poems I wrote this week, one for my sister and one for my friend. I have no doubt that they are not good poetry, but it's a small offering of thanks to them both.

For a Navy Officer

To sit next to you on the couch,

watching movies that make us cry,

while we eat a tub of ice cream that we'll regret tomorrow --

that is what I dream of when I fall asleep.

The guns you fire and the records I type,

keep us from each other,

and each night is a fearful one praying for your safety;

I know sometimes it's just the same for you.

But my darling sister,

you are who I wish I was

and who I wish to sit next to on a Thursday evening,

eating leftover casseroles while we laugh at our parents

and remember the names of boys who used to sit with us.

This is what I'll dream of when I fall asleep.

For our activist

The sound of the bombs hitting comes through the audio on my computer.

Unlike the great booms Hollywood tells me to expect

it sounds like water dripping into an empty pan in my sink.

I imagine you sitting inside,

curtains closed so your room is not mistaken as a target.

You hear the drones fly overhead and have to hope they keep on flying.

I listen to the day's accomplishments, but you never mention the most important one:

"I survived to fight again."

Your weapons are the computer you use and the pens you chew with each new thought

hoping to rally the world to your view, to document the wrongs you know.

I'm glad you don't carry anything stronger with you, but I wish it wasn't a matter

of your pen against their drones.