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Commentary Too - Dec 1, 2005 - Printable Version
- And May all Your Christmases be White.....
by Mark Faulk
I stepped out of my hotel, and turned north on Sixteenth Street. Although barely six o’clock, it was already dark in our nation’s capitol. From the moment I first arrived in Washington DC three days ago, I couldn't help but dwell on the extremes in this city, which mirrored so clearly our entire country, the entire world. Five hundred dollar a night hotels with homeless people sleeping in nearby doorways, huddled together in a futile effort to minimize the cold. Cafes serving ten dollar hamburgers and forty dollar steaks while others went without. Huge opulent buildings with row after row of marble columns, bronze and granite statues guarding the entries like erotic nymphs beckoning only those who can afford their charms into their inner sanctum. I walked the four blocks to the White House at a brisk pace, hands in pockets, mostly lost in my own thoughts. As I passed the fountains and statues of Lafayette Park, I began to hear the chant, first as no more than a rhythmic rise and fall of unintelligible sounds, then growing clearer as they came into view. A group of protesters, directly across the street from the White House, rising in the distance like the proverbial Mansion on the Hill, cut off from the commoners with massive wrought iron fences, gates, and armed guards, some standing at half attention at the gates, others being pulled gently along by german sheperds on leashes.
The accents were clearly African, they were cold and some were visibly shivering, but the chanting never faltered. The man with the megaphone led them like an orchestra leader, urging them on with each phrase, until their voices carried across the White House lawn, and, hopefully, into the Presidential palace, where our leader lives like a king isolated from those under his rule.
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!” (“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!”)
“Our people are dying!” (“Our people are dying!”)
“You are supporting terror in Ethiopia!” (“You are supporting terror in Ethiopia!”)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“Free Berhanu Nega!” (“Free Berhanu Nega!)
“Make the call! (“Make the call!)
“Make the call now! (“Make the call now!)
“Do it today!” (“Do it today!”)
“The whole world is watching!” (The whole world is watching!”)
Berhanu Nega….I knew who they were talking about. A New York-educated economist who was arrested in early November by Ethiopian officials, and has languished there since, undernourished, and facing a possible death sentence for treason. His crime? Participating in peaceful demonstrations against the government, advocating democracy in a country that has grown increasingly violent and repressed in recent years.
Facing the death penalty….for doing exactly what this group of twenty-five to thirty Ethiopians were doing right now, in front of our nation’s capitol. Protesting peacefully, protesting for freedom, for democracy.
As with every protest that I had seen over the past few days, this one was mostly falling on deaf ears. Tourists glanced nervously in their direction, some even going so far as to cross the street to avoid hearing their pleas, stopping to take pictures of the White House, always careful not to make eye contact with the few who would give of their time to help a fallen brother. And the locals? They didn’t even seem to see…or hear…the protestors at all. Too many years of practice ignoring the poverty of their city, of ignoring the protests against a government that just doesn’t seem to care, had seemingly rendered them callous and uncaring themselves.
I stopped to listen, and then pulled one of the protesters aside, and gave him a card for The Faulking Truth.
“Do you have the internet?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then contact me. I’ll tell your story.”
He nodded.
“Yes, it needs to be told. America needs to know, my people are dying, and those who dare to speak out are arrested.”
A voice from the group spoke up amidst the chanting, still going on.
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
And then, the voice: “My nephew was killed, and my family is missing. I am afraid that they are dead as well. Please help us.”
“I’ll do my best. Don’t give up, you are doing the right thing. People will hear.”
And above it all, punctuating every word, the chant continued.
“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!” (“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!”)
“Our people are dying!” (“Our people are dying!”)
I walked away, and my eyes teared up, I could feel the cold on my face more than before. Two “locals” walked by, young conservatives dressed in matching non-descript suits, clones of each other, and of a million others in this city without a heart.
“Go back to where you came from!” one shouted as he walked by.
I couldn’t stop myself from responding, hearing his thick Brooklyn accent set me off.
“So where are you from?”
“I’m from America.”
“Really? You sound Italian.”
“Fuck you.”
And we both walked on, equally certain that our viewpoint was right. I continued on past the White House, and turned right towards the Washington Monument. Then I spotted the White House Christmas tree, the "National Christmas Tree," which had just been lit earlier that evening. As I approached it, the chanting had begun to fade into the background, but the echo still resounded in my head, like a song that keeps playing over and over in memory long after it’s ended.
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!” (“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!”)
“Our people are dying!” (“Our people are dying!”)
“You are supporting terror in Ethiopia!” (“You are supporting terror in Ethiopia!”)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“Free Berhanu Nega!” (“Free Berhanu Nega!)
“Make the call! (“Make the call!)
“Make the call now! (“Make the call now!)
“Do it today!” (“Do it today!”)
“The whole world is watching!” (The whole world is watching!”)
And then, as I drew closer to the National Christmas Tree, another, more familiar refrain began to fade in as the chant of the protestors faded out. For a few brief moments, the two sounds intermingled in my head, yet another eerie contrast in a city of extremes, in a country of extremes, in a world of extremes.
It was Bing Crosby.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the treetops glisten, and children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white
“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!” (“Stop supporting a dictator in Africa!”)
“Our people are dying!” (“Our people are dying!”)
“You are supporting terror in Ethiopia!” (“You are supporting terror in Ethiopia!”)
“President Bush!” (“President Bush!)
“Free Berhanu Nega!” (“Free Berhanu Nega!)
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright
“Make the call! (“Make the call!)
“Make the call now! (“Make the call now!)
“Do it today!” (“Do it today!”)
“The whole world is watching!” (The whole world is watching!”)
And may all your Christmases be white
Welcome to America….
Here are a couple of followup pieces on this topic, written after our website was bombarded by Neo Nazis who somehow just don't get it. Go figure:
"Confessions of a White Gentile"
http://www.faulkingtruth.com/Articles/BlogFest/1060.html
"Dreaming of a White Christmas...."
http://www.faulkingtruth.com/Articles/LettersToEditor/1021.html
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