| Poets Against Torture |
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By RD Armstrong
The Well-Placed Carrot
There is a smoking gun There are hands dripping With the blood of innocents There are vast stores of Weapons of mass destruction Hidden from the prying eyes Of UN inspection There are unpaid debts And economies held hostage There is a training camp For terrorists There is a crazed man In charge of it all And a room full of advisors Planning the next attack Scripting what we will And will not know Twisting the truths to fit The scenarios Feeding the words into The earpiece of the speaker Dipping the brush into the whitewash Defining what is is Putting the right spin on each news item Leading the people to the correct understanding Because as we all know the people Are like children and need a simple Explanation before granting consent To the ruling junta to do what they will The evidence is clear The file is stamped: Made in America.
By Monique Buckner
A Prayer for Abeer Qassim Hamza al-Janabi
By David Gould
and its victims, lies the semi truths we will never ever be told. Somewhere in a land of secrecy, of clouded wit those trapped by a freedom, held in iron chains, shackled by manacles, not seeing the glimmers of each new day that turns its shadow, within its sheltered path: they supine, lost within the pain of never knowing that they are missed and gone. We cannot know all the reasons they were held, nor ever can anyone tell: trapped within systems; of secrets, enigmas, cryptograms, confidentialities, of state mysteries, double bluffs and just plain lies. Innocence spread upon the altars of democracy, rarely seeing the charge against them to defend. How can we defend such actions in our names; these miscarriages of justice, that most of us just choose not to see?
By Suzanne Hayes
I met a man. A gentle, polite man with a discernible accent, but very good English, a beard and moderately ethnic dress—who tells me that he is an immigrant, that he has been in this country, this wonderful country that he loves, for 25 years and that he's retired from the City of New York. His son is being held in solitary confinement in the Manhattan Correctional Facility downtown for the crime of allowing a suspected terrorist to sleep on his couch. In his prison cell, he is allowed no books, no newspapers that are less than 30 days old, no radio, and only one family member can visit him for one hour every two weeks. He has no cellmates, no one to talk to and is not allowed to exercise on the roof facility like the other prisoners, nor may he exercise in his cell. He tells me how grateful he is that I have come to his son's hearing to show my support. He tells me that all of his former co-workers and neighbors are so kind and loving, that they all cried when they heard what happened to his son--- "All of them!" he said. "They feel for me and after 9/11, they came to my defense and showed me their friendship. This is the real America!" he tells me. "Not this! Not this place of injustice, of seemingly deaf judges and twisted laws." His son is being held under SAMs, I find out. Special Administrative Measures, which basically means that one's Constitutional rights are no longer valid if you fit a certain profile–the SAMs profile. Originally meant for crime bosses who were able to order hits from prison, it now fits the "terrorist" profile and is being used accordingly. "The real America is a wonderful country," the father tells me in his gentle soft-spoken manner. "Thank you for caring about my son." "We're going to try to get musicians to come to the prison and play music for him so that he can hear it," I tell him, "so that he'll know we care about his sanity—that way he can feel connected." I am actually very worried that no matter how hard we try or how loud we play, he won't be able to hear it. "Somehow, hopefully, he'll know we're there," I say. "This should not be happening in this country, not in this country, no, it should not." he tells me. I have to agree. I met another man. With a large belly straining against the buttons of his white button-down collar shirt, open at the double-chin. He was sitting next to me on a plane. He said he worked with the State Department. Not AT the State Department, WITH the State Department. George W. Bush was still the president. "Oh? What do you do?" I asked. He never managed to articulate what he did there, just that he was a VIP, that he knew all the top men in the administration. They listened to him, he told me. He was fatuous and self-important, this man. I imagine he still is. "We have to win the war on terror, you know. These Muslims, they aren't like us. They believe in violence to promote their religion." "You do remember The Crusades?" I ask him. "The slaughter of Muslims and Jews who refused to convert to Christianity? And the Inquisition, of course." "Well, that was 900 years ago! At least we've become civilized since then!" I think about the bombings of abortion clinics and the shootings of doctors, and I can't see how that's civilized. But I say nothing. He tells me he knows everything about Muslims and the Middle East because he read Uris's 'The Haj.'" "He is a novelist, you know. He writes fiction," I say. "I assume you know, then, that the definition of the word Islam is peace?" "Who told you that? How do you know that?!" he barks at me, his eyes bulging and his face reddening. "Um, common knowledge?" I reply, trying to remain polite, while beginning to feel a bit threatened. We quickly reached a stalemate. He was glad to end our conversation, speaking blasphemy as I was, but feeling like he got the last word. I think to myself now that if not for the incarceration of his son, I would never have met the patient, loving immigrant father— I am hoping that our efforts to inform the public of the unconscionable treatment of his son will lead to others also feeling outrage about his treatment. But the man on the plane stays in my mind. "This is the real America!" he told me, emphatically. Um...yeah.
By Henry Lovett Howard
Nightmares In the Water
Water my dreams With the liquid ooze of nightmares. The steady drip-drip-drip On the prisoner’s face Echoes the ritual of water torture Across the ages. Here is a curious paradox: Water fills three-fourths of the human body, Yet we can drown in it. Someone who believes we have something to hide Can fill our mouth and nose and lungs Until they crave explosion, Then sit on our swollen bellies As we gasp confessions to non-existent crimes. In the time of the Inquisition, Water was poured from a vinegar jar Until it soaked a rag in the victim’s throat, And he confessed to being in league with the Devil. In the Middle Ages, the warriors of God Threw women in a pond, weighted with rocks. If they drowned, they were innocent And received a Christian burial. If they floated, They were burned at the stake as witches. To drown was to be saved. There have been many refinements To the basic tortura del agua: The vinegar jar and suffocating rag far back in the throat Have been replaced by things that call to mind The comforts of home: The running faucet, The watering can, The bathtub. Here in the United States of Euphemisms, The honest horror of “water torture” Has been replaced by a softer word We are less likely to choke on: “waterboarding.” What clever mind-games to play with word-games! What a media-friendly way to describe, With modern blandness, The ancient terror of confession through drowning! But wait, we are told, it’s only simulated drowning. There are doctors standing by, And master psychologists, Trained to know unerringly When the body surrenders, And the soul is ready to be saved. Waterboarding--such simple ingredients, to cause such pain: A flat wooden board, With restraints for the thrashing hands and feet; A thick cloth or towel, Or a perfectly ordinary cellophane wrap To encase the head in a facial coffin, Until breath collapses inside the saturated mask. Waterboarding: the sport of torturers and interrogators And Presidents, who soothe our worst fears About the soul of our nation By promising that we never practice torture, Only “enhanced interrogation.” Never mind the legions of politicians and pundits, Therapists and thinkers, Army brass and common soldiers, Interrogators and their prisoners, Those few who have survived their baptism by fire Of confession through controlled drowning-- None who speak a common tongue, But have a common word for waterboarding: Torture. But all the President’s men have assured him That it isn’t. The top legal minds his money can buy Fill him with oatmeal justifications He can easily digest: This is a “different” kind of war, With a special kind of enemy. Waterboarding leaves no marks, Causes no lasting physical harm. Of course, permanent damage to the mind doesn’t count. The fact that we must stage This hideous intellectual debate Over whether, and when, and how, to inflict torture, Or if flooding the face and lungs until a human being Screams like an animal Because death has him by the throat Is really torture after all, Is a mental torture too great for me to bear. I think I will go for a swim, Submerge my head in water, Wash away my sins and cleanse my soul, And perhaps, just for a moment, Tilt my head back in the shallow end of the pool, Let the water flood my lungs and nose and mouth, And see how long I can refuse to answer the angry questions Of a friend who holds me by my hair. It is only an experiment, But in three seconds, I know I will tell him Everything he wants to hear. As our national debate rages on, Night falls somewhere On the lonely towers Of a clandestine prison. Desperate men, By now thinking only Of the families left behind, Are shown the waterboarding room. It all looks so innocent, so harmless. Then the first “high-value” target Is strapped to the board, Head tilted downwards, Feet pointed heavenwards. The questions start flying, The cold liquid flows across his mercifully hidden face, And a primal scream fills the darkened halls As nightmares in the water begin.
Pictures at an Exhibition
When I saw the first photos from Abu Ghraib, I nearly gagged: A hooded man covered with electric wires, Desperately balancing on a child-sized box; Smiling soldiers beside a pyramid they made Of naked Iraqi men, Piled and bound in the rough stone casements Of a desert prison where no one could hear them scream. Like an exhibition of ourselves Caught in grotesque tableaux, The pictures make us look at things We do not want to believe, About the people we are told are given the power To protect the whole free world; Only nothing is free, and power often comes At the expense of truth. Then, too, the pictures make us ask questions And seek answers perhaps we would rather not have: Is all this the responsibility of one country and one time? Could we be those very same soldiers, In another prison and another war? Everyone is scrambling to condemn the pictures And distance themselves from their uniquely personal horror, From the politicians who ordered this war On down to the young men and women Who eat the choking sand, And dodge the mortars that come in fresh volleys of fire Whenever new pictures of the abuse stream onto television screens And newspapers throughout the world. Our leaders and foot soldiers alike Assure us that it is only the failure of “a few bad apples,” Never an official policy that condones torture. A “few bad apples?” Have we forgotten the execution ditches of Vietnam and El Salvador, Ordered at the highest levels and dug by our own hands, Or by death squads trained on our own soil? The bones of My Lai and El Mozote Shift uneasily beneath the charred Grass Whenever we say there is no “official policy” That condones such things, For the pictures are there to contradict. One photo of the abuse particularly chills me: That of a huge guard dog snarling at a naked and cowering Iraqi prisoner. There were guard dogs just like that one Who snarled at naked prisoners descending from the trains At Auschwitz, Or snapped at the heels of black children Running for their lives in Birmingham. Some dear friends of mine, Who lead lives founded on compassion for others, Recently argued with my fury over the prison abuse scandal. After all, they reminded me, Saddam Hussein did so much worse, And the world scarcely condemned him— As if somehow that makes it alright To use the same execution chambers and rape rooms For interrogations, beatings and torture that is somewhat less severe. My friends were mostly angered By the stupidity of photographing it all, The arrogance of believing That only the eyes of those on Tier1A Would see the lurid images, Would go on unimpeded. I worry about that, as well. I, too, am an American, after all, And I do not want to see our young men and women Gunned down in ever greater numbers, While those above them hide their guilt From photos that display battered human beings As war trophies. So my friends and I battle Over the meaning of the pictures, Perhaps too loudly for too long, Until their youngest daughter tells us not to talk any more politics Because it’s giving her a headache. It all gives me a headache, too, Only I can’t forget that some politicians told me We’re supposed to be winning the hearts and minds Of the Iraqi people. Exactly how, when their hearts break And their minds burn with rage, In a society where sexual humiliation Is akin to cultural genocide? When pictures in an exhibition Speak louder than words, There comes a moment when words themselves Cannot be held back. They come at first in a whisper, No louder than violin notes carried by a breeze, But relentlessly, until they are heard By another person, then another, and still another, Beginning always with one small voice that says, “I can’t live with this anymore, I will be silent no longer, I will tell what I have seen.” Such is the way the name, Abu Ghraib, Has come to be part of our collective vocabulary, And our collective conscience. We are not used to groping forward Through exhibit halls of such dark self-portraits, But this heartbreak may yet bring out The best in us. Perhaps the photos of Abu Ghraib May force all people who have seen them To look at themselves and at each other, At the ways they see and are seen, And learn a new way of knowing and feeling that may lead one day To far different pictures at an exhibition.
By Elizabeth Lazdins
Right Now
Right now. Like Spirits, Victims Of our government’s brutality Stand, Silently, Among Us. We can’t see their suffering, Or hear their screams, But the stain Of our inhumane behavior Is like a gruesome spot‐ Which will never Wash out Of the fabric Of Our flag. Under the stars and stripes, We all struggle and sweat for some American Dream. Under the red White And blue, Red stripes of blood flow, Stars never to be seen. White fear from simulated drowning, Blue throbbing neck, arms and legs From stress positions Tied up. Broken bodies: arms, eyes, hands, Broken like Us, Internally bleeding. Humiliation, Sleep deprivation, Starvation, Or forced feeding. Death threats on wives and children. All unseen But still Among Us. In this supposed democracy, Our government is Us, If it is Us Then we too are torturers! 80,000 people illegally detained, (Not counting The ever increasing Racist assault On migrants and black human beings On these very streets!) We will NOT stay silent while Criminals Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice And Complicit democratic congress Reap the profits Of corporate greed, Justify torture In Our names! Call a criminal what‐ he‐ is! John Yoo‐ Criminal! Lawyer, Distinguished professor?! John Yoo‐ Criminal! Created a memo To violate the Geneva Convention. The memo Which has justified Thousands of unheard Screams, pleas and tears, Justified Unseen, uncleaned Urine, vomit & spit. Black bags, Over heads, In the blackest of days Never to be seen again. Charge John Yoo with war crimes! Speak out! And Get Up against torture! Don’ wait for a savior, No compromise with criminals, Be horrified that Humans Just like Us Are victims! And be wary, What is used on them, By unconstitutional law, Is On Its Way Home.
By Angela Consolo Mankiewicz
Monsters
nurtured by a resident ethos to propagate the natural order. We make them out of received dreams, spied in a mirror, unmindful of cracked corners. If we see cracks, we plug them with putty and tell ourselves nothing is perfect. When the putty begins to crack, we patch a little more and go on about our business. One day, we notice a chunk of glass dangling off a splinter, threatening to shatter. When it does, we shield our eyes, pick out shards with ungloved fingers and delicately paste back what's left for the next generation.
Ice-Breakers: Define human cruelty and degradation and how we try to stop it and why it doesn’t stop
Topics For Basic Remedial Work: What a human right is What instincts are About human nature What good and bad mean
Correcting A/Im-moral Educations: Why we have to teach human rights Why some people don’t have any What kind of people Americans are, could be, have been, should be What decency means What honor means
Advanced Topics as Applicable: Imagine the future Imagine a better one and how to build it - willfullness required, talent optional
If your child falls asleep, wake the child up and start again, or, you can say nothing in a loud and bitter voice.
*Inspired by Antler’s poem “How To Explain the War To Your Children,” published in CHIRON REVIEW, 2004.
By Mark Prime
An Enduring Torture …The golden-haired children seemed in their own peace filled world as In this tale of time, this poem, there’s not enough room for everyone to sit,
And We Stand Still And we stand still,
It Matters
It matters what we do. Let’s not conjure this painting further.
Undisclosed History
Deep beneath the aching ground of our state, writhing,
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