My
Trip to the SOA
by
Janice Coty
During
the weekend of November 23-25, I accompanied four members of my TCAP
family and joined more than 10,000 other peace activists to protest the
existence of the School of the Americas. I was aware that we were to go
to Ft. Benning, Georgia for a demonstration against the torture, rape,
assassination and massacre of tens of thousands of victims of SOA
graduates. I was prepared for an exciting and unified outpouring of a
non-violent protest against yet another tool of injustice against
humanity. I was not prepared for a weekend filled with such strong
feelings, ranging from pain and grief to peace and love (not necessarily
in that order).
My
first experience with these strange feelings started on the 15-hour bus
trip that turned into an 18-hour sojourn. The bus, leaving Detroit with
a near-capacity passenger load, gave up its lights somewhere south of
Dayton, Ohio. For at least three hours we sat in cramped, upright
positions, awaiting the arrival of a substitute bus to send us on our
way. My thoughts turned to a recent 3-hour color tour I had taken. When
two senior citizens were ten minutes late in returning to their bus a
certain "mob mentality" kicked in and the other passengers
were ready to leave them there. They were not nice to the two errant
ladies upon their return. Now, on this trip, I waited for the crowd to
get surly but they didn’t. Actually, part of me wanted to hear a few
well-placed complaints so that I could add a few of my own, but it did
not happen. This was a humbling experience: peace advocates are just
that. They place good will over personal comfort.
We
arrived too late for the Catholic Worker Caucus, so I went right to our
sleeping room, which was on the site of the SOA rally. Christine, Joe,
Clif and Stas, with their incredible stamina and energy, were soon busy
helping with food preparation and mingling with the many peace
activists. I popped a few Advils and collapsed onto my sleeping bag,
only to be awakened by a noise I could not identify. There was a very
rhythmic clinking, drumming and chanting that turned out to be the
Puppet Pageant. Volunteers in brightly-colored garb and with some
incredible tall sculptures made from papier-mâché and other art
mediums, were telling the story of the fight between the dragon-like SOA
which devoured life and freedom, and the doves and gentle muses who
defended these rights. It weaved through the crowd and I ran from my
room to follow it, clapping my hands and singing. Many people of all
ages, shapes and sizes were doing the same thing, often giving
high-fives and linking arms. I felt pure joy and so connected to
everyone there.
There
were so many moving experiences— the Jesuit Mass, the incredible
speakers, learning how selfless the Catholic workers are in providing
shelter and sustenance. However, the one experience that will remain
with me always was my participation in the funeral procession. The idea
is to have a solemn honoring of those people tortured and killed by the
SOA alumni as a way to give a voice to their silenced ones. As the march
proceeds, a list of names and ages of the victims is sung out and we
lift our crosses and answer "Presente!" The full implication
of two-year-old Estella Diaz’s life and death hit me fully as I raised
her little white cross and proclaimed her presence. She came alive as
vibrantly as my two-year-old granddaughter, Lily, and I ran to my room
to grieve for all the innocents of the world. I cannot write this
without fresh tears.
I
am grateful that I was included in this trip. I have learned more about
the continuing battle to close the SOA and how vital to humanity this
closing would be. I have also learned that there are foothills to be
conquered in my own activism before I can conquer mountains.
