"My America doesn't exist any more," he says. "I hurt for it."
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Iraq Three Years After: America Wonders If It Did the Right Thing
by Thane Burnett
A life-saver, John House thought his own life was spared in Iraq. During his time in the wasteland of Fallujah, he initially worried he may never get to meet his son, James -- born on Christmas Eve, 2004, while he was at war. But when the 28-year-old U.S. Navy medic survived that battle zone, he thought for sure he would see home and his newborn boy.
But no path is sure in the maze out of Iraq.
The young corpsman died in a January 2005 helicopter crash, which also killed 30 other Marines. Some time before, he penned a letter back home. In it, "Doc House" -- as his buddies called him -- wrote of his beloved comrades: "I know all of them ... even in the dark, by their mannerisms."
His letter -- foreshadowing disaster, but not its reach -- continued: "I don't know how I am going to deal with losing any of them.
"It's my job to take care of them and keep them safe."
That pledge doesn't just rest with a young, idealistic medic.
It is the everlasting duty of a mother. One who is now left behind, to try to continue her soldier son's healing ways.
Today, Daniel's mom, Susan House, of Simi Valley, Calif., will travel to Arlington West -- a peace memorial in the sand by the Santa Monica pier -- to stand before her son's marker. It is, depending on how you clock a start of destruction, the third anniversary of the start of the Iraq war. Yesterday Susan was expected to speak at a protest in Ventura, where Main St. was blocked off.
"If I can save one life, or make one person think about what is happening ... that's powerful," she tells me.
This weekend's marches and candlelight vigils and prayer services are no longer ignored as fringe protests. Agree with them or not -- as you would with the war -- they are part of a powerful wave.
As U.S. President George W. Bush faces historically low approval ratings -- 33% in one poll -- the anniversary protests ring with a new social order. Activists are pressuring Congress to demand a quick withdrawal of the nearly 135,000 U.S. troops from Iraq. And against a lame-duck leader and Republicans distancing themselves from his recent missteps, there's a renewed sense of mission among peace activists.
"It's Time to Listen to the Anti-War Movement," read a headline in the Buffalo News last Thursday.
This weekend, for the first time in three years of attempts, peace protesters will have the run of Chicago's Michigan Ave. -- one of the city's most prominent streets.
But rather than large-scale protests across the nation, most events are smaller and planned for countless U.S. suburbs.
"Public opinion has shifted. You can feel it," says Celeste Zappala, a Philadelphia mom whose son, Sherwood Baker, 30, became, on April 26, 2004, the first member of the Pennsylvania Army National Guard to die in combat since 1945.
In October 2004, I walked with her -- and interviewed her -- as she took part in a protest march in the City of Brotherly Love. In some ways, she hasn't stopped since.
"A year and a half ago, we were being accused of treason ... and betraying our children," she now tells me. "Here we are today, and who's left that listens to George Bush?"
She believes the people have moved beyond the positions of both political parties, including Democrats, who don't seem to know where they stand on shifting sand.
"I heard a news report this morning that America bombed a house. The only thing that was in disagreement was just how many children were inside. Now, did America make any friends today? Advance the cause for a secure Iraq?" wonders Zappala. "The people are asking these questions."
This momentum comes even as Bush has launched a new round of patriotic stump speeches on the homefront and U.S. troops spearheaded the biggest Iraqi offensive since the 2003 invasion. But the clamour of war cries are increasingly being drowned out by voices of Americans who are sympathetic and, more importantly, being heard by mainstream U.S.A. They may not be able to stop a war -- yet -- but they are making more people stop and listen.
In Bella Vista, Ark., Bill Williams, a Marine Corps veteran, runs a bed and breakfast with his wife. As we speak, he's making bread for guests booked in for the night.
For decades, he kept the boots he wore in Vietnam. They travelled with him through states, homes, jobs and wives. Then, after the war began in Iraq, he handed them over to the "Eyes Wide Open" exhibit in 2004 -- empty boots representing the casualties of the conflict. The handover became cathartic for the 61-year-old warrior.
He says his life is a trade-off. Today, he'll speak at a rally in Kansas City. He'll talk about peace. It helps heal old wounds, he reasons, while pulling open others.
"I couldn't have told you why I kept my boots. Now I know," he says.
In Lowville, N.Y., former Washington veterans affairs worker, Derek Davey, will likely be driving to see a daughter today. He doesn't plan to take part in any of the protests. Just yet.
This weekend marks five months since his son, Cpl. Seamus Davey, died in Haqlaniyah, Iraq. Other than a writer from his local paper, I am the only reporter he's spoken to since his son was killed. He has long believed the Iraq war is foolish and illegal. But he didn't shout it out during a parade. Only in his son's ear.
"I feared he was caught up in a patriotic wave," he says of Seamus.
His firstborn child and only son was so determined to serve his country, Derek recalls. "I was a voice in the dark.
"Now I hurt deeply. I was looking forward to him finding a wife and having a child. Now my world is upside down."
He now feels the pull to take part in future peace protests.
Perhaps a silent march, planned for Washington in May.
"My America doesn't exist any more," he says. "I hurt for it."
So he makes plans to take it back. Or at least march in that direction -- as the procession line, it seems on this third anniversary, grows longer each year.
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