Are We There Yet?


By Carol Fondiller

Several decades ago, I owned a bike, one of many. She was a beaut. Built for comfort, not for speed, with her fat balloon tires and broad comfortable seat, we had many adventures, my bike and I. She was hefty. A ‘50s (or earlier) girls Schwinn bike. She had a distinct personality, stable, and curvy. She was painted with bright blue enamel paint. If she had an engine she would have been a Hudson. She was called Prunella. I swear she named herself.


Prunella was the sort of bike lusted after by surfers. She was easy to steer, even if you were lugging a surf board under one arm, and wearing a wet suit. If Prunella got sand in her chains, she was easily cleaned. One early November evening, I left Prunella outside my place for just a minute to get something I forgot. I came outside, and witnessed the ABDUCTION of my Prunella.

I ran screaming after the two prepubescent males who, by their dress were matriculating in Gangers 101. Oh Prunella! Prunella! Bike o’ my heart! My partner in cruising along the alleys and streets of Venice in the darkling dusk, with the scents of night blooming jasmine, honeysuckle, gasoline, and frijoles refritos blessing my nostrils, gone gone stolen, to perhaps be ravaged for her parts – I spent days raging and crying against those vile little brats who stole my Prunella. “In the old West, they used to hang people for stealing a man’s horse,” I moaned. “I could describe those nasty little humanoid sociopaths!”

A friend, who’d heard this aria before, said “Well lemme git mah dawg, mah pickup, a case o’ Coors an’ mah gun an’ hunt ‘em down lahk the yeller little varmints they are.” “OK”, I said, “but you don’t have a pickup”…My dear friend, master of the quirked eyebrow—quirked. “Oh, I get it, I’ll fold up my white sheets.”

I wish I could say this was the only time my rage took over my brain squelching all but a ravening hunger for vengeance. But luckily, I was brought up by rational ethical parents and their friends, various Jungian shrinks, etc. So generally I cooled it, mumbling, sulking, holding my sense of personal injury close to my heart while soaking in a warm bathos of self-pity.

When I saw the images of the abuse and tortures of Iraqi prisoners, I was shamed. I was shocked. But I recognized the feelings that engendered those actions against people who were powerless, and dependent on superiors for their survival. I had those feeling also. If I’d have caught those nasty little boys with my bike, I might have beaten the crap out of them. If my friend were of a mind we might have cruised the alleys, terrifying children in the quest for my Prunella. I was furious. I was frustrated. I was wronged. Those creepy little gremlins, less than human. I did nothing to harm them; why me? I saw the pictures again—the naked bodies, hooded victims, the smiling youthful soldiers joking and pointing at their prisoners.
They looked all too familiar.

I have a book called “Willing Executioners” about the willing participation of most of the German population in the extinction of the Jews in WWII. There are pictures of smiling young soldiers placing their feet on the backs of bearded old men in their yarmulkes and prayer shawls. There are photos showing soldiers and civilians forcing men and women to dance, rifles pointed at the feet of their prisoners. There are excerpts of letters they sent home telling of how proud they were to rid the world of Jewish vermin.

There were several stories a few years ago about a sheriff who forced his prisoners to sleep in tents, depriving them of “treats” like hot meals and coffee. These prisoners were worked hard, physically punished, deprived of newspapers and books except for the Bible and given pink underwear. This, I guess to make them feel less than men, and to de-sex them.

One of the accused guards in Abu Ghraib prison was an ex-prison guard. I believe this man was a civilian guard leased out by Halliburton.

The most telling to me, was the picture of a fresh faced little pixie pointing her gloved fingers in a trigger position at hooded and/or naked “detainees”—so much for the superior sensibilities of the “fairer sex.” We are just as good as men and just as vile.

I know these crimes committed by our military and our wardens are not as horrific as the Nazi atrocities of WWII, or other genocides ranging from the Persian annihilation of indigenous people BCE, or the killing fields of Armenia or Vietnam or Russia, but its only in degree, my friends, only in degree.

When I got over my shame “we’re not supposed to do that! We’re better than that!” to quote Rumsfeld, “Oh my.”…The Palestinians blow up women and children, likewise the Israelis—brought up with Jewish guilt, I find that hard to face.

I guess I remember some Jew saying “Eventually, we will forgive the Palestinians for killing our children, but we will never forgive ourselves for killing theirs.”

I was surprised that some of the participants in the abuse of prisoners never heard of the Rules of the Geneva Convention in regards to the treatment of prisoners of war. Didn’t their mommies tell them it was wrong to pick on the powerless? Our leaders do the tightrope dance of they’re not POWs, they are insurgents–terrorists–they wear no uniforms therefore they are not soldiers (so we get to torture them?).
They are people. ‘We are Americans. Aren’t we supposed to be better than our enemies? Isn’t that the reason our leaders gave us for ridding the world of Saddam Hussein?

Oh, of course, there were weapons of mass destruction, and a vain attempt to link Iraq with the horrific events of September 11, 2001, but our president has come up with the moral imperative to bring democracy to the non-Christian masses. And woe to any one who disagrees, no matter now respectfully, how quietly they do so. They are called unpatriotic—and that’s one baby step away from treason.

In Nazi Germany, people were exposed to the constant rat-a-tat-tat of war mongering. And told of their racial and cultural superiority. Anyone who questioned authority was questioned. People were told that to inform on one’s neighbors or spouses was patriotic. We’re not there—yet. But librarians are told to give up lists of what people read to the government. People can be held without access to lawyers, or even notifying friends or family members for no stated reason. I fear I might be held in a dungeon under a letter of cachet because I have a fondness for pita bread, humus b’tahini, mid-Eastern music and Omar Khayyam. People are scrutinized. Their e-mail examined, their letters opened, hearsay evidence collected by government agencies because they are persons of interest. They are surveilled, just as what happened in Nazi Germany, the Soviet Union, and in Iraq under Hussein. Well it’s not quite that bad…or is it? Are we there yet?

Posted: Tue - June 1, 2004 at 09:00 PM          

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