September 15, 2007.
the clickings of an old type writer.
it was September 15, 2007.
the voice of this narrator, starting to remember loudly.
around 12 pm, an area of DC started to be trotted by small and large groups, scattered here and there, all heading to that one and only destination, to that center of the world dicisions, to that white building, to that White House.
the voice of the narrator, a faded-out picture of an unfamiliar or unrecognizable room.
groups pointed out by yellow dots, yellow dots moving, dots overhead, dots hanging in the air, stranded, waiting, moving, walking, in groups, toward that White House. I was going around, confused, in a hurry, desperate, lost in between the desire to stay and the obligation to go. yellow banners over stickers, moving in people's hand.
the narrator voice. the picture leaves the hazy room. the picture follows his narration. in black and white.
i went around, as if this crazy person with this need for that yellow color. "can you give me a banner? can you give me a banner?" i begged them, i plead with them. none wanted to let go of that yellowness, of those black words printed over. none. they led me to get it. they led me and i had no time to look for it. someone offered me this blue banner. there was a pigeon.
the clicking of the typewriter gets faster and faster. the smoke rises up over the narrator's figure, sitting, behind the typewriter, facing the wall.
the white pigeon. there was a branch. clinging to its mouth. it seemed to be flying. "don't go anywhere, i need you," i pleaded. it got stuck on the blue banner. i looked at the banner in my hand. people moved around me. toward the White House, they were heading, they were heading there and i was stuck there with that banner in my hand. someone said something, that someone handed me a paper and a pen. that someone asked me to fill something . i filled it. i didn't even know who she was, why she was asking for information. i was giving it to her, not listening to her, not seeing her, listening to the hubble bubble around me, staring at the space in between the bodies rushing past me.
the narrator's voice takes a faster pace. the narration. in black and white. a crowd. trees. police guards. vendors of printed out slogans. t-shirt slogans. a crowd. the space. the narrator goes on.
i had to leave. i was late, i am forever late, i hate being late.
the shabby desk. the room, the smoke is rising into the room.
i was late. i couldn't leave. i went on. among them.
banners, t-shirts, pamphlets. nuns and buddhist monks, just people, cowboy-looking men, old women, children, hippies, just people, in black and white, smoke. the narrator.
i moved around a while. i needed to stay and yet this shit work thing was nagging, making me suffocate in the one place i had to be, right there, right then. i wanted to be part of this and i had to leave. i left the crowd. i left myself among the crowd and i left.
the smoke is rising into the room. a wooden shabby desk, a bare lamp hanging from the ceiling, the sound of the typewriter.
the picture. black and white.
the yellow banner. i left without the yellow banner.
the yellow banner, in black it read, "Stop this war!"
the blue banner, in white it read, "War is not the answer!"
an old speaker, someone's voice aired and broadcasted, black and white. "for the sake of freedom, for the sake of security, for the sake of democracy, for the sake of humanity."
black and white. an old radio broadcasting somewhere. "we need to stop them, we need to be here for our people."
another voice. the narrator is gone. no radio in the picture. the voice comes of a radio, somewhere.
"tension in the region, security wall, checkpoints, nuclear bombs, freedom, retaliation, bombs, our soldiers, our people, them, their weapons, our security, their disobeying international laws, our obeying all laws, we are the law, they are the enemy."
smoke is filling the old shabby room. the old typewriter is clicking again. the narrator is talking again:
on September 15, 2007, people gathered, people shouted, slogans, for and against, for different reasons, with different beliefs. it was just one day. they let us shout and have some weight off our shoulders. it has been the same for all wars, and all wars has happened, as planned, as they have been necessary, as they have been decided. this was, this is, and this will be forever.
the clicking, the typewriter. the smoke. the radio is off. the light bulb hangs from the ceiling. the narrator:
we know better, we know what the larger picture is about, we are the enemy, we are bad, they have to bomb us, even if some of them are against it. we are a threat. but still they want to free us. with wrapping us into the net of sanctions. with chaining us to our poverty and misery. they want to give us democracy. with making us believe in their dictatorship. they want to offer us a new life. with giving us life after death. they want all good, not only for their people, but also for us. we will understand one day.
black and white, the picture. the light is still burning, but the smoke has filled the room. the typewriter is not typing anymore. the narrator's voice:
on September 15, 2007, it is said that some 100,000 people gathered in front of the White House to shout their opposition against the Iraq War. it is said to have been one of the largest anti-war demonstrations in recent years.
but on the following days the news were no different. iraq. afghanistan. iran. all the same bullshit about them.
how many died for afghanistan? how many died for iraq? do the numbers even mean anything anymore? since when did the lives of the people of the "region" get so cheap? each day, four people, fourteen, forty. what difference does it make when human beings become merely figures for statistics?
the narrator's voice goes into the smoke. the radio starts broadcasting once again. all black.
"we need to look at the larger picture, we need to be strong. we are here to save humanity, and we will. humanity will be saved and history will decide about us."
