Tiz the Season: Why an Angel sits atop the Christmas Tree

Tiz The Season: Why an Angel sits atop the Tree
--- By Joe Petrulionis

Halloween and all through the store,
Bing Crosby's _White Christmas_ played at a roar.
There just for candy, not decorations, not gifts,
but the store needed profits and the economy a lift.
The crowds were cantankerous, the cashiers rude,
To my, "Sir, Where's the candy?" the clerk said,
 "dunno Dude."
My temples were throbbing when I asked him the reason.
Sez, "Trick-or-treat candy was gone for the season."
"Its Halloween, surely you have candy to sell."
He answered in a language I don't know very well.
Then he pointed upstairs, with his middle finger;
and he growled so loudly I didn't dare linger.
Walked all around, never found the next floor;
But a half box of Snickers for sale by the door.
I snatched up a handful dashed to the express line.
A couple before me was having a hard time.
Their cards would not swipe, they needed a manager,
whose key would not fix it. I suggested a hammer.
The elderly wife looked sweetly in my face.
And blasted me point blank with pepper spray mace.
Then out on the lot there arose such a din,
run away shopping carts in hurricane winds.
I dodged and I dashed and I tried really hard.
Several carts broadsided my new smart car.
As I pulled into my drive and turned off my lights
some teenagers egged me and disappeared in the night.
As I stepped over the threshold I soon realized
that the snicker bars were still at the store in a bag.
So my mood was real bad when my wife got home
from her costume party she'd attended alone.
Dressed as a Victoria Secret Angel...yes, wings and all.
I stood there dumbfounded as she heeled down the hall,
dragging a fourteen foot scotch pine, yep newly cut.
She said only, "Darling, would you mind if we put the tree up?"
"It won't fit," I cried, "in our nine foot den,"
"So where do you want it," she asked with a grin.
And that's how that angel got up on the tree
all because Christmas does not start on Halloween!


This so called "poem" was first read at a Sigma Tau Delta (Honorary English Society) meeting at Penn State University--Altoona. Shown here are Joe and Sandy Petrulionis exhibiting their entries for the "ugly sweater" competition.

My Favorite 911 Memorial

Walking around a bend of the Rennsteig (see my last post for a description of this wonderful foot trail in Germany), I came upon a stone memorial to a military engagement that occurred there in 1944.



This Memorial stands beside the Rennsteig Trail.



The world being full of these stone and iron reminders of the valor and bravery of "our side" in some past struggle between right and wrong, I usually just walk past them. Its not that I do not appreciate the sacrifices made by people who have come before me. It is just that I often think we memorialize the wrong things. Worse, these memorials sometimes preserve in the minds of yet another generation the idea that there were only two sides in any war, our side and "evil." Twice worse, evil would have prevailed had it not been for the military prowess of our side. War was the answer and the solution. It often seems "God Almighty" needed to borrow the United States Military for a few years because evil was getting a little too much for him to handle.















The "Other Side" as seen through propaganda posters. (Click on them to see them in more detail.)


Thrice worse, there is evidently some psychological need to dehumanize our enemy. In order to justify to ourselves the great wrongs we think we must accomplish to "win" a war, our enemy must not be imagined to be people. They have to be monsters, devils, animals...but not people. Else, how could we ever use nuclear weapons on cities, chemical weapons on agricultural efforts, "shock and awe" theatrics against civilian populations, torture against their soldiers whom we capture in battle. No, we must first think of the other side as somehow less than human. Then we can live with our actions, no matter how inhuman these actions may become.



                                                             Nuremberg 1945



                                               Camp x-Ray, Guantanamo, Cuba 2002



                                               Dachau Concentration Camp, Bavaria 1945









Bataan Philippeans 1942










Chemical Warfare against Agricultural Lands in Mekong Delta in 1970












Largely Civilian City, Nagasaki Japan in Fall and Summer of 1945







Mai Lai Vietnam in 1968









Resisting the urge to think of my own side as "right" and the other side as "evil," I normally just walk on by war monuments.

But this time I stopped and translated. I don't know why, perhaps I was tired and in need of a short break from hiking. But I stopped and translated.



The original monument explained simply, "In memory of the fallen American and German pilots in an air battle over the Thuringen Forest on September 11, 1944."

I thought to myself, "How interesting, how civilized, to include the attacking enemy flying over your homes in the memorial."





Then I read the explanatory sign positioned several meters away.

"On September 11, 1944, roaring through the sky of the Thuringen Forest, an air battle between the German troops and the Allies was underway. This battle involved 84 young men, six German ME 109 and two American P51 Mustang aircraft. The result was 5 deaths on the German side and 2 deaths on the American side. This memorial should remind us of this air battle so war does not ever repeat."












"The result was..." Now that was a nice touch!

This little battle was not amplified to have been the most important turning point between the progress of the forces of light over the forces of darkness. It was not reinterpreted as a strategic victory. The benefits, if any, gained by the loss of life are not listed. And the actions taken by the various pilots are not spun into heroic ballads. In fact, we do not even learn about the reasons the battle was fought. The result was seven dead young men.

Can we ever control that all too human need to conveniently de-humanize our enemies? I look forward to the day in the future when we will be far enough removed from current struggles "between good and evil." Perhaps we will even count the dead humans on all sides of our current wars when we sing the songs of triumph and claim to have "won" anything at all in return for their "sacrifices."

Nur wo du zu Fuss warst

"Nur wo du zu Fuss warst"

Clio  walked into a bar one day and saw Calliope sipping on her Kostritzer,  She says, 
"Calli, I did not know you hung out in this place!" I heard her say that but I did not hear 
Calliope's reply. The music was so loud.

Like all true stories, were I to begin telling this one at the very beginning you would not 
believe me and you would probably not understand it, either. This is because history, 
unlike the past itself, does not come at us in chronological order. It (history) happens
 in the present as we reflect on the past. Also, who could ever pinpoint the true 
beginning of any historical event? Events are like rivers, there are many springs and 
creeks which feed into a river. They have no one true "source." So the best place to 
begin this true story is right in the middle, at that point you want to explain with a 
historical explanation: several days ago at about 4pm on October 18, 2010. At 
about that time, in the cold and fog after a full day's walk, we crested a hill 
and saw the small village of Schlegel. At that very moment, I just knew that it 
was the right place.

 Sandy,  (my main Muse) and I were backpacking the Rennsteig Trail, an 
ancient and famous foot path through two forests in Central Germany. We 
were on the last leg of the trail, heading southeast and within twelve 
kilometers from the end of our nine-day walk. Taking it slowly, we were 
seeing the sites, visiting the exhibits and not making very good time 
(if you are one of those people who measure a trail by watches and calendars).

This 170 kilometer footpath connects two important river systems and has 
formed the boundaries for three or four kingdoms, principalities, and regions
 since the early 1200s CE. As such, the Rennsteig, which means "race way,"
 is mentioned in the memoirs of traveling theologians such as Meister
 Eckhart (1260-1328) and Martin Luther (1483-1546), but has been very 
significant geography for writers including a tax collector named Johannes 
Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), The Brothers Grimm (1785-1863), 
Thomas Mann (1875-1955) and, very likely, Germaine de Stael (1766-1817), 
although I doubt if she covered any of it by foot. Also, this was the route taken 
by two of Napoleon's three columns on the way to his 1806 victory in Jena,
 a battle that a philosophy professor then at the University in Jena would call, 
"The End of History." But, codslaver, Doctor Hegel, History was only just 
getting started! During the last half of the 20th Century, the southern part 
of this trail would form one of the most important boundaries between the 
so called "Free World," and "Communist Block." Depending on the sources 
you choose to believe, around 1000 people were killed as they tried to 
escape East Germany by crossing these militarized borderlands. So the burden of history 
weighs heavier than a rucksack when we walk this trail, especially when we consider how 
this epic struggle between empires affected the people living nearby.

Small parts of this trail had been important to my own personal history as well.
 During the Cold War, the southern leg of the Rennsteig had been deemed "off limits" 
because that part of the trail formed the border between East and West Germany. 
The East Germans, under the direction of the occupying Soviet Forces, had 
fortified their side of the border and declared it closed. In response to this 
military "threat," West Germany, under the direction of its occupiers (the 
United States, France, and the United Kingdom), constructed elaborate 
border monitoring devices and moved tens of thousands of NATO soldiers 
into place, creating a defensive barrier from the North Sea to the 
Czechoslovakian border. Both sides told their people that the other
 side was preparing for an imminent invasion.

Such was the situation when I was first sent to Germany in the early 1980's in the capacity
 of an intelligence analyst with the US Army. I was stationed in Nuremberg with the 2nd 
Armored Cavalry Regiment, a unit tasked to monitor a small part of this vast borderlands.

One very cold afternoon during the Winter of 1984/85, I was ordered to perform a long 
weekend of what was known then as "border duty." This was a very rare opportunity for 
me, because most "border duty" was handled by our subordinate units who were stationed 
very near the border. The explanation given was that our Regimental Commander had 
decided that all intelligence personnel should all have some border experience. I was excited.

We quickly packed our cold weather gear. Then several of us from the Regimental 
Headquarters who had been ordered to weekend duty convoyed our jeeps along 
beautiful forested roads. Crawling north, we arrived at the Border Operations Center 
("BOC") sometime after dark.

In the Army you get used to the cold and the dark. You also learn to follow any 
orders you are given. So we locked our duffel bags to our assigned bunks; we were 
handed our evening dinner (a bagged meal that could fit in our uniform pockets), and 
we reported to the safety briefing in the "BOC," another nearby tent surrounded with
 three coils of razor wire. At the briefing we were informed that we would be spending 
our three days there working four hour rotating shifts; four hours of sleep, four hours 
of observation duty, four hours of BOC duty, and back to sleep for four hours. This 
would insure that we each would each have five or six daylight and nighttime shifts 
in both the observation post and the BOC.

Sometime later that night I was awakened and told to report to the observation post for 
my four hour shift. Forbidden the use of flashlights in tactical situations, I followed the
 razor wire to the observation post about 500 meters up the nearby hill. The walk
 through the dark was uneventful. The observation post turned out to be 
a wooden platform surrounded by dirt mounds scooped out from the top 
of the hill. A field desk under a tarp in the center of the platform held a 
telephone, a log book, and a thermos pot. The soldier I was to replace 
gave me the binoculars and a very brief introduction to my duty for the night.

"Nothing moving down there tonight. Each hour, just write down everything
 that happens, here in the log. If nothing happens, just write 'nothing to report,'" 
he said as he signed the log book by the light of his wristwatch.

"If anything does happen, call the BOC on this field phone and tell them. Stay 
here, and stay on your feet." Then he was gone.

He was right; nothing did happen. The thermos turned out to be empty. 
No enemy  tanks appeared on the horizon and I could happily write, four t
imes, that there was "nothing to report." The observation platform overlooked
 farmland, mostly. On my left, a hint of the dark outline of a forested hillside;
 on my right was a tiny village with two dim streetlights burning over the gravel
 town center. Directly below the observation post and between me and the
 little town was a grassy strip that I had to assume to be the international 
border, the notional edge of the "free world." After what seemed like ten 
hours, my replacement showed up. I gave him the same briefing and went
 back down the hill to the BOC for my second shift.

In the BOC my job was to monitor the field phone connected to the observation 
post. If it were to ring, I was supposed to answer it and decide if the situation 
was urgent enough to wake the duty officer, who was asleep in the covered j
eep out front. The duty officer had a radio and the authority to make any decision
 necessary.

"Don't wake that Captain up for anything insignificant. He's on 24 hour duty. If 
you have  to go up to the Observation Post, get somebody else to sit in here," 
then, as before,  he was gone.

Again, nothing happened. I wrote four times in the BOC log, "nothing to report." 
As I stepped out of the dark tent into the morning  winter fog, I realized that I 
had just completed my first full shift of border duty.



My next shift, the following afternoon and evening, was not so monotonous. First,
 I could see more of the beautiful German countryside and even watch some of the
 people in the little town move, once or twice, between some of the buildings. More 
important, our regimental commander had decided to fly some of his staff to the 
border that afternoon to inspect the operations there. For me that meant the 
observation post got a full thermos of coffee, (not to drink, but to have on 
hand in case he asked about it.) We were told to touch up our uniforms, do 
a good police call around the area, clean the latrine, and "square away" the 
bunk tent. Some of the first helicopters arrived just as I was being relieved at
 the observation post. So I was standing by the phone at the BOC when the 
Colonel arrived for his "situation report."


During my evening shift at the BOC, several more of our helicopters arrived
 and departed. Also, an "intercept" squad set up several large 
antennae and additional tents near the observation post
 to listen to the radio traffic sent back and forth on the other 
side of the border. Understandably, all of the activity on our 
side of the border had attracted the attention of East German 
border military units on the other side. By the time my BOC shift
 was completed, I could report in the log book that there were 
three mobile personnel vehicles and a dozen or more East 
German border military personnel moving in or around the t
own. My shift completed, I went to the bunk tent and fell quickly
 to sleep.

Awakened just before my shift was to begin, I quickly took my 
place back at the observation post. Things there had changed. Our Colonel and
 his staff had all flown their helicopters away during the evening. But the little village 
below me was in an uproar. Through the binoculars I had a clear view between several 
houses into the little gravel town square. Every street and alley leading toward 
the square now contained a vehicle with its headlights on and beaming toward 
the square. The East German border military had assembled the entire village, 
perhaps eighty to a hundred people, in the small square. In the center of 
the square, on top of a van like vehicle, stood a uniformed man with
 a megaphone, lecturing the crowd.

I did my best to describe the situation in the logbook. As I now recall, the lecture 
continued for more than an hour as the people of  the town stood in the cold, 
after-midnight air of mid-January. I could not hear what was being said, but only 
the man in uniform seemed to be speaking. I remember some of the faces: 
grandmothers in scarves, grandfathers in bib overalls, moms, dads, 
teenagers, children, babies, all standing or being held for more than 
an hour while some uniformed bully gave a mandatory talk on what I imagined
to be the merits of Marxism and the corruption of Capitalism. The faces told 
the real story. Somber, expressionless, and patient, these people were used 
to being pushed around by uniformed representatives of "the State." Even the 
teenagers appeared to stand and listen, to offer no hint of aggravation. Finally,
 when the megaphone wielder tired of talking, he climbed down from the back
 of the van, got inside, and the vehicle moved forward as the crowd parted. Then 
the crowds went home and lights went out. It was probably 2am.

When your paradigm shifts it is not always evident to you at the time. As I stood there on the
 observation post, trying to make sense enough of what I had witnessed to write a short 
synopsis  for the log book, I knew I felt angry. But what was not apparent to me then was
 the extent to which this indignation had changed me, changed the fundamental way I 
think about things.

 Since that night on the observation post, I have distrusted most ideology. From that point 
forward, the political spectra we now call "the left" had become as distasteful to me as the
 "the right." I had witnessed, all too firsthand, that Marxist socialism could become tyranny 
as easily as National Socialism or unbridled capitalism. After my night on the observation 
post, I would measure any government's value by the extent to which its people--especially
 the minorities among them--could live their lives in peace and quiet. Those places where 
teenagers feel safe to thumb their noses at a police officer, where grandfathers might 
decide to sit at home playing poker rather than to attend a political rally, and where babies
 get to sleep the night through without disturbance, these were to me the signs of a healthy
 governing system. Graffiti, skateboards, punk rock music, diversity of opinion, and protest
 marches all became, for me, the markers of an empowered population, a situation 
that only seems to exist where the government is under the control of its 
people and where the people are under the control of a just body of law.

Perhaps a thousand times since, I have told the story of that winter night. My
 wife and daughter have too often heard me describe the people's faces as I
 have used their situation to explain my feelings about any government that 
uses force to control its own people. So a few days ago, at about 4pm on 
October 18, as Sandy and I were walking along the Rennsteig, she understood 
exactly what I meant when I pointed to a nearby hill on our right and said, 

"There was the observation post! If we come to a little town, just over this hill, right
 there, then this is exactly the place!" was about all I could say.

A few steps later and the slated roofs of a small village began to appear, exactly 
where they should be. It had been twenty-five years. I had changed; the town had 
changed. But we were walking into the very same place that had meant so much to
 me; now, I learned from my map, it was the village of Schlegel.

The Town Square: Now With A Garden


As we entered the town from the west, the Rennsteig brought us into the little square 
in which I had witnessed the winter assembly, so long ago. Much of the square has
 been turned into a little garden, as if to prevent its future use in such ways. But the 
streetlight still stands in the center.

We walked through town to find a room for the night, stopping first at the
 guesthouse.  A very nice gentleman there told us that he had no rooms 
ready, but that he could prepare dinner for us later. He sent us further into
 the village looking for a family nearby  who could rent out a sleeping
 room in their home for the night. As we walked back and  forth through 
the village, asking directions and inquiring about a place to sleep, we
 realized that these people had not encountered many Americans, despite
the Rennsteig  running directly through the town. The people were all very
 curious, helpful, and extremely friendly. One family interrupted their own 
dinner to show us,  specifically, which home on the next street had two rooms
 for rent.

We Found a Room Here!






We found a beautiful room, took our showers and then returned to the guesthouse 
for a  late dinner. As promised, and despite the fact that the guesthouse was closed,
 the owner very nicely prepared a hot meal for us as we sampled the local beer.

The Guesthouse in Schlegel


Perhaps the best part of the evening occurred when the owner joined us at our table
 while we ate. He seemed surprised to learn that we were Americans. When I asked 
him about the mid-1980's and what it was like to live on the border, he excitedly told 
us about a time (perhaps it had happened several times) when the Americans came 
with their helicopters, tanks, and big antennae. He described the whirlwind of excitement 
caused by these American shows of military force and reiterated how concerned his 
people were that the Americans were preparing to invade. For the very first time I was 
forced to consider the emotional ramifications of having "the enemy" arrive with a half 
dozen helicopters, tracked vehicles, mysterious electronic devices and lots of 
uniformed soldiers and parking it all on a hill overlooking a small village.

On the way out of town the next morning, I could barely speak. 


My own recollection  of that night in 1985 had been proven 
to have been horribly one sided. The historical "Truth" of
 that night, I now realize, does not exist. Instead, the guy 
behind the binoculars at the observation post, the only 
witness to all of the events that night, had missed the 
most important question, "How had the American show
 of force, modern equipment, and helicopter mobility 
encouraged the tough guy response by the East German 
Border Police?" In some ways, I admitted, we were all partly responsible for that cold winter assembly 
twenty-five years ago.

But as we turned to take some final photographs of the village of Schlegel before 
completing the Rennsteig, I realized that my lingering memory would be that the town 
today is quiet, prosperous, friendly, and safe. Somewhere on the
 way out of town, on theRennsteig, is another sign, a wooden trail 
marker. In German, this one says simply, "Only when you have gone
 there by foot, have you ever really been to a place."

A Marching Song?

A Marching Song by Joe Petrulionis and Laurel Petrulionis

Psychedelic music, Thai sticks and bongs--

I stood there on the good side, against the Viet Cong,

“stand up for your country, boy, your country right or wrong,”

under the battle flag of freedom.

Eighteen years old, and half a world away--

           containing Communism, there were zillions to be made,

“load them into sweat shops, pay em fifteen cents a day,”

            under the banner of fair trade.

Patriotic music, now, Hum-Vees, and bombs—

            this time we were the good side, against Iraqi moms,

what’s good for Haliburton must be done for Uncle Sam,

            and Americans don’t really give a damn.

Eighteen years old, and half a world away--

          fighting terrorism is the price we pay today, 

"guarding all those poppy fields and pumping all that crude,"

         this song sounds even sadder on an oud.

But,

McCarthy is a villain now, and Gandhi? He’s a saint.

Che’s on teenage tee shirts, Richard Nixon ain’t.

There’s something somewhere deep inside the spirit of our youth,

Perhaps the pull of History towards...

Hey Reader You Beginning Aim

“Hey Reader You Beginning Aim”                                

By Joe Petrulionis

(At a Rocky Ruin by a River Outside Hilla)

A sign I passed on the east-west highway,

--signifying nothing much to speak of--

had been erected some time ago and promptly neglected.

It offered, on both sides, most humbly, in some unintelligible oriental tongue,

directions, or limits, or a challenge, or worse--

declaring only “EREH DEIRUB GNINAEM.”

Just a barely utterable--if acoustic--jumble, yet

something in the script troubled for a moment, just for a second.

Then it vanished from my rear-view mirror, into the misty past.

Moment

Moment

A Two Act Play by Joe Petrulionis April 18, 2007

Setting: Act 1 A Street in an Iraqi Village. Fall 2007.

              Act 2 A Street near Philadelphia. Winter 1777.

Abstract: Mutual antagonists discover concepts of “right,” “wrong,” “evil,” and “terrorist,” to be matters of perspective. A “moment” between the accidental triggering of an IED and the irrevocable consequences of the resulting explosion enable enemies to communicate. This play explores the possibility of understanding consequences in enough time to still make choices.

Characters (Cast of 8 plus ushers)

Tariq/Tarl: A man who lives in a village near Baghdad and Philadelphia with his wife and daughter.

Sergeant Benjamin Alexander: A U.S. Soldier and a British Grenadier on patrol in a village near Baghdad and Philadelphia.

                                      He has a wife and a daughter as well.

A wife: Same actor plays four parts, including wife of Tariq/Tarl, Alexander’s wife, an usher, and an audience member.

A daughter: Same actor plays three parts, including Tariq/Tarl’s daughter, Alexander’s daughter, and

the daughter of the couple in the audience.

The Commander: A U.S. Army Captain and a British Major

Three Soldiers: Three Soldiers on patrol.

Ushers: Ushers in head scarves.

--Scene 1 and Act 1 --

The audience is being seated into a Tigris River village already undergoing a patrol and security operation by U.S. occupation forces. There are distant sounds of a helicopter, periodic sounds of automatic gunfire, and the smell of smoke, even as the audience is being seated. The set has been designed as a street scene; several block/adobe house fronts face downstage. One house, stage left, has an open window and a doorway, both darkened. One man in regional attire periodically looks out from the darkened door, and again withdraws. Stage right is dominated by a downstage enclosure of gauze hangings interspersed with construction blocks, an assembly that might be a house. The gauze is now lit from the outside to preclude translucence using a wide spotlight aimed from house high right serving as the only stage lighting at present. Downstage center, in the middle of the street, has been placed a small rug, a prayer rug. House lights remain up as patrons are seated by ushers. Uniformed soldiers, armed, are in position at prominent exits. Ushers wearing scarves, whisper instructions and seating guidance to the patrons. Ushers continually look over their shoulders, and exude exasperation, agitation, and fear. Uniformed U.S. patrols move through isles, communicate through radios. They stop to question ushers, sometimes rudely.

Once most of the seating has been completed, with a few of the last punctual attendees being “detained” in back of rows, One usher (down front) is suddenly surrounded, thrown to the floor, searched, handcuffed, taken away screaming, “I have done nothing!” She is pulled away from a down center group of audience that must be seated by another usher. As she is carried out, her mouth is taped shut, and the screaming ceases.

Soldiers continue to interact with audience in a commanding, often arrogant manner. Periodically, small groups of soldiers move across the stage, from stage left to stage right. Some soldiers, patrolling among the audience, ask to see several patrons’ ticket stubs. Distant gunshots and helicopters are the sounds behind the shouts of maneuver and command. Wisps of smoke with gunpowder and sulfur smells move through the house. Final seating continues.

            One soldier, the “commander,” steps forward, stands near one corner of the rug in the middle of the street. He pivots to receive a bull horn by another soldier and he begins addressing the audience in an incomprehensible language, exaggerating the bearing of his command. His pivot twists and displaces the rug.

COMMANDER: “Ira Pakt resitsik Ap Ga le adner derak flash photography op recording devices.”

He lowers the bull horn, shouts something else incomprehensible at an usher. An usher timidly joins him on stage. He speaks to her; she “translates” into the bull horn for the audience:

USHER: “Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen, We have been, uh, commanded to take our seats as the situation is about to be, uh, stabilized. You are, uh, instructed to turn off your cell phones, pagers, and, uh, any other communications devices. Flash photography is forbidden. There will be a short intermission. Please remain seated from this point on and no one will be um, inconvenienced.”

The translating usher hands back the bull horn and runs toward back stage left, towards the darkened doorway.

[Arabesque Hand Drums begin]

The man in the doorway, “Tariq,” holds out his arms from his sides in a scolding, questioning pose; the usher puts her head down, shakes it and mutters something to him. She runs into the dark doorway. Tariq crosses his arms, looks at the commander, smiles broadly at the commander, and then disappears back inside as well. A small girl, probably eight years old, appears at the open dark door, wanders outside. The usher, now with her scarf removed, runs to the door grabs the girl and herds her back into the darkened doorway.

After the rest of the audience is seated two events compete for immediate attention:

First, a down center party of a woman, a child and a man--the last group to be seated—have been directed to sit where there are already “patrons.” Several ushers with flashlights arrive to sort it out. House lights fade, somewhat, except for the area around this seating disruption. Loud but hushed whispers by ushers ask the seated patrons for their ticket stubs. The usher then asks the newly arrived patrons for their tickets. The woman hands something to an usher, “See, looks like 3d, 3e, 3f” [or some such seating designation] “Looks like we are in the right place?” She smiles.

On stage, the Commander walks to the edge of the stage to watch the discussion over seating; he gives a “finger across the throat” signal to the pit. Arabic hand drumming abruptly stops. He signals to several other soldiers two in the house rear and two from house front rush over to the group of ushers. The ushers scatter at the approach of the soldiers. One soldier asks the seated patrons for their tickets, looks at their tickets hands back the tickets. The standing woman points to the back of the house saying,

“I just gave her my ticket, where did that usher go? She has my ticket stubs!” Soldier grabs a nearby usher, pulls her to the front of the row; mutters something to the usher. The usher asks to see the standing patrons’ tickets. Standing woman explains again, “I gave our tickets to the usher who just went that way.”

Usher translates to the standing party: “Madam you and your party will have to go back to the ticket office to sort this out.”

The woman’s voice begins to rise, talking slowly and loudly, now to the soldier:

“Listen sir, we will be happy to go and sort this out. But one of the ushers just asked for our tickets. I will need those tickets to sort this out at the office. The theater must have double sold these seats. This is not our fault. Please ask the usher to bring back our tickets so we can go get this worked out.” She points up the isle toward the box office.

            A soldier grabs the woman’s outstretched arm, pulls her up into the aisle. Her escort begins a protest. Another soldier forces the man to the ground. He is handcuffed, hooded. Their daughter begins screaming. Two soldiers pick up the child and begin to carry her around the other way. The woman is screaming, “Don’t you DARE touch my baby.” The daughter is carried out of the house; as the soldiers bring the child one way, and the other two soldiers bring the parents out the other way, in handcuffs and hoods. Child holds fists above head as she is carried out. [PLENTY OF USHERS REMAIN ON HAND TO QUIETLY INFORM WOULD BE GOOD SAMARITANS THAT THIS IS ALL A PART OF THE PLAY.]

While this is happening, the commander has moved to the edge of the stage watching the seating problems. “Tariq,” the man in Middle Eastern attire peers out of the darkened doorway, looks up and down the street, shakes his head. Tariq walks out to the middle of the street and carefully straightens the rug. Then he stands up, looks around, and runs behind the corner of his house, (Upstage Center) leans there to watch.

The audience is finally all seated and the patrol continues while the house lights dim. Commander signals to soldiers and he walks off stage right.

Four uniformed soldiers walk on stage. First two reach center stage, near the rug, and they kneel on one knee. One kneeling soldier faces audience, the other covers the advance of the third soldier who is peering into the darkened window from stage left. Second soldier (kneeling) sees Tariq hiding behind the corner, signals to the third and fourth soldier. Fourth soldier, “Danny” signals to third soldier and begins to walk around behind the house with the door and window.

The first soldier (kneeling and facing the audience) mutters into his lapel radio,

FIRST SOLDIER: “, uh, Roger, will comply.”

First soldier signals to the other three. The soldier beside the window signals back to first soldier by shaking his head, pointing to his eyes. The two kneeling soldiers stand and move off stage right, leaving one soldier on stage, still in front of the window.

Weapon at the ready, lone soldier “Sergeant Benjamin Alexander” moves backwards to center stage. The second soldier appears behind Tariq, freezes. He brings his weapon to the ready, pointed at Tariq, who remains unaware of the second soldier’s presence. Second soldier slowly withdraws behind the corner and out of the audiences’ sight. Alexander’s weapon is still pointed toward the open doorway. He pivots and steps onto the center of the rug. As his foot pushes down into the rug, the stage lights immediately rise, a mechanical “click” loudly sounds, and a deep bell peals once. All sounds of distant gunfire and helicopter stop. Action on stage freezes.

The soldier, Sergeant Ben Alexander, looks up, around, down at his foot on the rug. Alexander looks back up toward Tariq, back around the stage and audience, up at the lights. He can not move his feet. He throws his weapon down beside him. Not moving his feet, Alexander takes off his helmet and unlaces his boots. He stands up, looks around, at the sky, and yells,

ALEXANDER: “Sh__!”

Leaving his boots in place on the rug, Alexander pulls his feet out, walks around the prayer rug in one full cycle, staring down at his boots.

Tariq peers from around corner and sings out,

TARIQ: “You’re dead, American! Say your prayers, you have about half a second to beg forgiveness of God Almighty, use the moment wisely.”

            Tariq steps up on a small wall that separates the alley from the street. His feet seem to stick there on top of the short wall as well. Tariq fumbles with his stuck sandals.

ALEXANDER: “Get your own forgiveness together, Terrorist. We saw you over there. It will just be a moment before you are killed yourself. We saw you hiding. My buddy is right behind you, and he never misses.”

TARIQ: “Terrorist” what words you Americans use. Clicks tongue. Is everyone a terrorist who does not heel at your leash? We are not dogs.

Angry, Tariq pulls his feet out of his sandals and leaves them in place on top of the short wall. He jumps down on to the stage.

ALEXANDER: “No, much worse than dogs. Dogs recognize those who feed them!”

TARIQ: leaning over looking at his sandals, tries to move them with his hands. They won’t budge. Tariq walks toward Alexander. Alexander follows him with his gaze. While walking toward Alexander, Tariq looks at Alexander’s boots still unlaced and sitting on the rug. He stops and looks back at his own sandals; then he looks up at the audience. Alexander is looking at Tariq’s shoes then back to Tariq.

Grim Laughter. “So I am a dog? Am I being paid to be here American? Am I being thrown scraps from under the table of American Oil companies? Do they dress ME up in a pretty uniform, issue ME a weapon, and send ME to my death in, where is this, Pennsylvania? Fetch Fido! No you are here, far from where you should be. And now you are dead. What do they call those little clanky things you wear on a chain around your neck?”

ALEXANDER: Reaches his hand up to fiddle with his dog tags, smiles. “And you are only a couple of seconds behind me Terrorist.” [Laughs] “I wouldn’t want to be in either of our shoes right now. A guy from my hometown is right behind you, he sees you hiding.” [Points over past Tariq’s shoes] “You have no place to run. You are a dead terrorist. I may be dead” [looks up and around] “but I am a dead hero, a fallen angel.”

TARIQ: Looking upstage center, walking over to his own shoes, looking over behind the back of the hiding place, peers slowly around the corner, jumps back as if he sees the other soldier, looks again, waves slowly at the other soldier, seems to recognize his own jeopardy. “Ok, Hero. I’ll tell you what. In five years, ask your family how smart you will seem then. Once your hero bonus money has been spent, and your country has forgotten about you, and the world has been made safer for EXXON you will see. Angels do not fall from heaven. But devils do crawl out of hell sometimes.”

ALEXANDER: “We only wanted to help you people, to remove a dictator, to make life better for you.”

TARIQ: Loudly: “Remember ‘Shock and Awe?’ Crusader? Long before you got on this notion of spreading democracy through the world, giving us a government we could call our own, you were bombing our cities, murdering our people, accusing us of preparing nuclear war. You want to make life better for us? Stay home! Mind your own business. Spread democracy in Washington D.C.!”

ALEXANDER: “Maybe we should just fly airplanes into your buildings?”

TARIQ: Walks toward Alexander, somber. Faces him, not four feet apart; Tariq takes a long breath, says “Ok, there it is. You are hitting us back for 9/11, aren’t you? You bloody idiot! You just gave your life for a cruel mistake. Even your own government knows that we did not fly airplanes into your sky scrapers. Look at a map sometime. You are dying for a wrong turn, misinformation, a case of mistaken identity.” [In a high voice] “We’re sorry, but the number you dialed is out of service and is no longer available. Would you like to invade Iraq instead?” Turns and faces the audience, “You know, you Americans should really read more. You are here to end the Oil For Food Program, let's face it.”

ALEXANDER: “The what? Oil for Food?  ...   I am dying, I, uh, died…to bring you and your family into the modern world…liberty…freedom!

TARIQ: “Yes I know, liberty, freedom, addidas, MacDonalds…Well, that looks better on a tombstone, doesn’t it.” Holds his hands up towards the lights, “Killed in Action in Operation Iraqi Freedom, Fall 2007. It sounds much better than ‘Oops we really screwed up this time.’ Can you hear your funeral now? I can, there is some preacher talking about sacrifice, national need, and patriotism. He has a golf game in two hours, so your family had better handle their grief quickly.”

Both men Laugh…both awkwardly stop when they make eye contact. Tariq looks back up stage left; his eyes drift over to his own open doorway.

ALEXANDER: “So where did a terrorist learn such good English?”

TARIQ: Confused “English? Never!” spits “So do you have a family, Crusader?”

ALEXANDER: Looks Stage Right. Lights rise inside the gauze enabling the audience to see within. There is a woman and a young girl, on a couch. A door frame faces upstage. Three military officers, in dress uniform, approach the open door, facing downstage. The Woman slowly stands. Officers knock. The girl stands, clenches fists above her head. No emotional expression otherwise. Lights slowly dim inside gauze, vision fades. Alexander looks down, sits on edge of stage.

TARIQ: Watching where the vision had been, looks back at Alexander. Stands behind Alexander, says quietly “Looks about nine?”

ALEXANDER: delays a second or two…“She’s seven.”

TARIQ: suddenly angry, “So what are you doing here, now? You should be there” [points to gauze, begins crying] “instructing, fathering. She doesn’t want a hero, she wants a father! Seven! And what about her mother, did she sign off on this ‘Fallen Angel’ role? Does she get some special pew at church, with a sign that says ‘widow of dead Crusader?’”

ALEXANDER: “Enough!” Stands tries to walk away, gets to edge of the stage. Sits. “I don’t know what’s happening here. But I will be damned if I am going to spend the last seconds of my life listening to this…” Tariq had followed him, Alexander notices, tries to stand up again. Tariq, still behind him offers a hand. Alexander refuses and stands up on his own. Tariq shrugs, sits down himself.

TARIQ: Sincerely, facing the audience, “Be very careful, Crusader, how you use the Holy Language to barter your last seconds. You may well be damned. But God” Tariq looks up “Glory to His Name—is most merciful, oft forgiving…”

ALEXANDER: “What? ... ” [he looks around again] “What kind of fuse did you put in that IED anyway? I never expected it to take so long to die.”

TARIQ: “God, in his…mercy, apparently, has given us this moment. The fuse was immediate, Crusader. You are already dead…So, it seems, am I.”

ALEXANDER: “Or maybe we are already in Hell…Feels like Hell…” Looks around the audience, then at Tariq, “Looks like hell… you know I only had three more months on this tour. I have already been here a year…a year in hell. Fair being fair, I should be on the way home right now.”

TARIQ: “I have a good idea. You don’t want to be here. We do not want you to be here. US Air can get you there. Delta is ready when you are. Fly the friendly skies! Back Home!

ALEXANDER: “Just walk away from a civil war. Just pull out, cut and run. That would be the height of irresponsibility.”

TARIQ: “Lets think about this for a minute, crusader… Do they issue you names? What’s your name?

ALEXANDER: “Alexander … Benjamin Alexander…Ben”

TARIQ: Counting on his fingers. “Ok Alexander, Benjamin Alexander…Ben, first, you start this war because you think we have weapons.” [second finger] “You find out that we don’t have the weapons after all, so you give us a new hand picked government to make up for the whole ‘shock and awe’ thing. Right?” [third finger] “But the new government can’t govern because an insurgency disrupts everything that has your fingerprints on it, Right?” [fourth finger] “And the insurgency is able to convince people to assist them because of the whole ‘shock and awe’ thing. Can you imagine that! In the meantime, you are still here shooting things up and patrolling our villages. Did I get all of that right?

ALEXANDER: “We are only occupying your villages because the insurgency is still fighting.”

TARIQ: Loudly, “The insurgency is only fighting because the Americans are still here occupying us.” Talking now to the audience, “So to untangle this idiot knot, WHO has to go home ... not me, I was born right over there.” Tariq points at the window.

The lights inside Tariq’s house have slowly risen. The mother is seen at the window looking out into the street. Her scarf is now off, her hair visible. Before the lights rise, Tariq’s daughter slips outside again, and is now leaning against the front wall, intently staring at the boots on the rug. Tariq jumps up shouting and waving at the girl who ignores him; evidently, she can neither hear nor see him.

TARIQ: “Back into the house! Now!, Go!” Tariq waves his arms in front of the girl but the girl does not respond. “Go Back! Woman where is your child?” He urgently screams and waves but the girl does not seem to hear him. Tariq stands between the girl and the rug, protectively.

The woman, unhurried, walks out into the doorway. Looks both ways, refocuses on the rug. Pulling her scarf back into place, she says something to the girl who smiles and runs inside again. The woman stops smiling and apprehensively looks up and down the street, ignoring or not seeing Tariq. Then she quickly goes back into the house. The lights fade inside the house. Tariq stands watching the lights fade. He walks toward the window, looks inside. Alexander moves up behind Tariq.

ALEXANDER: quietly…”So I am not asking about the insurgency. What are YOU doing here? You can’t think you will win this war? Shouldn’t YOU be thinking about being a father, not a terrorist?”

TARIQ: Tariq notices that Alexander is behind him looking into the window, also. Tariq begins walking away in a wide arc, trying to draw the soldier away from his house. “Win? ...WIN?” “What do you Americans think wars are? Baseball games, football games? You don’t win a war. Best one can do is to survive the loss of a war, since everyone loses…” Looking at the audience, shaking his head… “You Americans really should read history books!”

ALEXANDER: “Ok, point taken…but why do YOU plant IEDs and kill Americans. Not them…” Alexander points down the street. “I mean YOU, why you? Did we do anything to YOU?”

TARIQ: Slowly, “American, I AM those people” points down the street. Hitting his own chest, he screams “THAT is who I AM. The object of your ‘shock and awe…ME…right here! ... in there!” points inside the window. Stops, with his hands out to sides now, quietly, “No, we can’t win this war. Neither can you. But my people might survive it. That beautiful little girl in there MIGHT survive it! And when you finally do go home…and you will…” laughs and then cries, “when those of you who survived it go home…finally… then we will have outlasted you…those of us who do survive.”

“So what is YOUR rationale? Why are YOU here to die in a place you should never have been? YOU, Ben Alexander.”

ALEXANDER: Walks back over to the rug. Walks one full turn around it saying… “I don’t know…trying to survive too, I guess… Listen, we are stuck here waiting for something. When that fuse goes, I am dead. When the device blows, Danny is going to fill you with bullets. You won’t survive either.” He continues walking around the rug. Suddenly, he Stops. “Go into the house!”

TARIQ: “What?” Tariq stands, watching Alexander.

ALEXANDER: Pushes Tariq towards the house. “Go in the house and do not come out!”

TARIQ: “What are you…” Tariq goes just into the doorway. He watches while Alexander finds his helmet, straps it on, steps into his boots, he laces them up. Alexander picks up his weapon, makes jumping motion. His feet still won’t move.

ALEXANDER: “Stay there. Don’t move. When you hear the explosion, stay put! Don’t go outside until many other Americans arrive. Comply with their demands and admit nothing! Stay in there…with your family. Stay with your family.” Alexander keeps jumping, but feet won’t budge.

[Lights Fade: Arabesque Drums]

[But just before house lights come back up the Arabic Drums turn into a roll on a snare and a march being played. Drum Fades.]

Intermission

Act II: Similar Street Scene. (Perhaps a palm is replaced by a pine.)

Lights rise on a small patrol of British Red Coats, Grenadiers. One Drummer beats out the march as they march across the stage. The commander orders halt and left face. The patrol now faces the open doorway of the house. The sergeant (Same actor as Alexander) is sent to knock at the door frame. Turl, (same actor as Tariq) dressed in Colonial American attire (leather breeches, boiled shirt with long bow tie, and a leather apron) comes to the door. Standing in the doorway, Turl looks at the patrol and then at the commander.

COMMANDER: Sharply marches to the front of the detachment to make a pronouncement. “You, sir. Do you deny that your name is Turl Allen?”

TURL: Steps out of his doorway. Turl’s daughter steps into his place in the doorway. “I, sir, make no such denial! M’ name is Allen. If I may ask, why do ye trouble one of his Majesty’s loyal subjects? Not, because ‘is name be Allen?”

COMMANDER: “We have good information, sir, that may stir wonder at this your claim of loyalty. Smithy services to seditious insurgents, is the purpose of this call, I’ll warrant. I demand you pronounce, here and now, your intention to live by your oath of loyalty to His Majesty King George, Sovereign by God, or to those rascally dogs starving, even now, at Valley Forge. By God, speak man! And be measured in your choice!”

TURL: “My choice has been made, as witnessed by these neighbors and the warrants already executed under threat of lost liberty. ‘Is Majesty is my lawful Sovereign and I ‘is loyal subject. I’ll have no allegiance to curs of any sort, be they of four legs or two legs beneath red top coats. Me smithy services are for honest men, who gladly pay me for my efforts. And those efforts are wanting while I pass the day at my door, correcting malicious rumors from drunken spies with fresh coin and large imaginations.

COMMANDER: “You are aware of the consequences, good day to you sir.” Commander bows, nods to drummer who starts a cadence. “March!” The patrol moves stage left. Before the patrol is entirely off stage, the commander places his hand on Danny’s shoulder and signals him to move behind Turl’s house to keep watch. Danny departs from the patrol, takes up a position behind the house, out of sight of the audience.

[Drums Fade]

[Lights fade on stage. Lights rise inside the house.]

Turl appears at the open door several times. He looks up and down the street; then he disappears back inside the house.

Two men approach the home from stage right. They walk past the house. Stop. Turn. One stands in the middle of the road watching; the other goes to the front door. He Knocks.

Turl appears at the door. The audience can hear whispers and mumbling. Turl looks both ways. Turl and the man at the door go inside. Several seconds later, the man emerges with several cloth bags, apparently full. He splits the load with the other visitor. Turl is standing at the doorway. The two men walk off stage right with their bags. Just then, Danny emerges from behind the wall and levels his bayoneted weapon at Turl. Startled, Turl raises his hands and steps out of his house. Lights fade to dark.

[Hold Full Dark for seven seconds.]

TARIQ: Laughs, “That won’t work, Crusader.

[Stage Lights Come up. With no scene change indicating the setting is back to Iraq, (uniforms are now back to U.S.)]

Sergeant Alexander, with Helmet on and weapon at the ready is still trying to trip the IED. Tariq is watching him from his doorway. Tariq (back in a long shirt, Arabic style) turns abruptly and walking back toward the wall, says,

TARIQ: “But it was a nice idea, very touching…yes,” stops, turns toward Alexander, says “thank you… But everything has to be back in place, EXACTLY back in place. The future emerges only out of the EXACT present. And the present falls out of the EXACT past. So we only have this one little moment, just a little bit before right now…There is no past… and no right now, quite yet… just this little, bloody eternal, moment in the middle….” Looks up at audience, says “you know?” Then he looks down at his sandals, looks back at the audience and says, “There wouldn’t be a phenomenologist in the house, would there?”

Tariq walks toward the wall where his sandals are still waiting, looks at his shoes for a long moment. Tariq stops, turns to the audience and holds out his hands, palms up. “Of course, YOU could fix this with the flick of a few million little switches.” Throwing his hands towards the audience, mumbles something inaudible. He takes a heavy breath. Tariq steps up on the wall, turns; he looks down at his sandals again.

Tariq steps into his shoes slowly. Before he pushes his second heel down, he looks up to Alexander. Alexander looks back at Tariq. The lights flash out. In the dark, an explosion on stage is immediately followed by automatic rifle fire, smoke, screams, a groan, helicopter sound, a child’s cry, rapid gunfire in the distance. As the stage lights come back on, “Danny” the soldier behind the house is jumping over the wall, running toward Alexander, who now lies in the middle of the street. Tariq lies in front of his house. His daughter runs out into the street, drops to her knees beside her father.

The girl shows no emotion, just a hard stare at “Danny.” As stage lights drop, only a small spotlight is left on the girl. She brings her two fists above her head and holds them as the spot fades to a dark stage.

[Arabesque drums]

When the stage lights rise again, the soldiers are moving across the stage with some prisoners in head scarves. They stop and bow to the audience. They spread apart. The Wife and the Commander, still in Colonial and British dress, come in from stage right. They bow. From back stage left the girl, holding the hands of both Tariq and Alexander, walks up to the center and bows. Then whole group bows.

[Arabesque drums fade].