Everyone's in accord: ‘Troops out now!’

Bulletin--Boyd sent the following message to WW on Aug. 29 that he has been threatened with termination from his housing for veterans. Boyd wrote, “As of today if I speak out on the war in any form my rental lease will be terminated and I will have to leave the property where I now reside.”

Eddie Boyd at Camp Casey in Crawford, Texas.

Aug. 24—The first thing that hit me when I arrived in Texas was the heat. I have one word for it: intense. It was heat like no other, with very little shade. Texas is not for the fainthearted.

Then, as I looked to the side of the road, I saw the crosses lined up like soldiers in formation, all decorated; most have flowers. I slowed the car so I could take in what captured the attention of the entire world for such a long time. Each cross had the name of a fallen soldier.

We came to a fork in the road. On one side there was a group of folks draped in white and blue, and a large poster that read “We support our president.” And on the other there were people, Black and white, women and men, and lots of children, playing and gathering items for the camp. The two parties were separated by a large plot of land, a sort of “no-man’s land.”

I got out of the car and was immediately met by my contact person: Dustin, a Navy veteran and spokesperson for the group Troops Out Now. Dustin introduced me to all the groups: Gold Star Mothers Against the War, NAACP, Code Pink. And then there were just people who had lost loved ones, and people who just cared about the issue at hand, and Cindy Sheehan. I was soon writing about the different people on a note pad; one thing that everyone was in one accord about was that “WE WANTED THE TROOPS OUT NOW.”

Around 2 p.m. a caravan of bikers roared down the road that faced the camp. I later found out that it was a group from the local VFW and very much pro-war. We were instructed not to confront the pro-war people—to really ignore them.

I began talking with a guy who looked as if he could have been one of the bikers who were passing through. He told me that he’d tried to talk with one of the pro-war guys because his grandmother told him to try and find out about the other side. As he began to ask the gentleman about his point of view, the guy looked at him and said, “Go to hell.”

I could see the frustration in his eyes as he replayed the incident to me. He said: “He don’t know but I am not only a vet but a Republican. I just don’t agree with this war, and this is the treatment I get.”

I left shaking my head. We have a president and administration that claim to be a uniter not a divider, but this country seems to be more divided than ever before.

I went through the camp checking the different people who were here—Black, white, men, women, children of all age groups playing. In particular were these two little girls, one Black, one white. The Black child looked to be around 7 and the white child seemed to be around 4 to 5, and they seemed to not have a care in the world. They just played and laughed; they seemed to be so close. I thought to myself, “The world really needs to see this.”

Around 5 p.m. I took a ride to the second camp. This camp was closer to the president’s ranch. We passed his church, and began to hear the jokes about what and who he prays for when he goes to church. I just listened, not trying to get caught up in the mess.

We arrived at the encampment. Even though it was smaller than camp 1, it seem to be more organized; a large white tent that could easily protect over 500 people, but I noticed around 150. A woman with pink hair and a Code Pink button must have seen my disappointment. She said in an authoritative voice, “They’ll be more people here by tonight.”

I asked her what brought her here. She said: “At first it was Cindy, and I just wanted to support her. As I began to get involved in more activities, it began to give me peace of mind.” I then asked her where was she from and she told me Tennessee.

Soon after that I met a couple from California, the wife a schoolteacher and the husband worked in the medical field. She told me about how she only sees the kids she teaches going off into the military because they have other issues that will keep them from college, like poverty, drug abuse and violence in the homes. She told about one child who would come to school because the only meal he would have each day would come from school, and of one child who came to school wearing the same thing every day until he was told that he smelled; he then took her to his house and she found out that his family had no running water or electricity.

Economics is the number-one reason people join the military—not freedom, not helping other countries, not spreading democracy.

Around sunset Jeff, a marine who wrote about his tour in Iraq and turned it into a one-person play that is playing on the West Coast, played Taps on his bugle for all the fallen soldiers from Texas. It was followed by a song from a Black lady whose grandson is in Iraq. There was not a dry eye at the ceremony. By this time I said my goodbyes to the kind folks at camp 2 and got on the shuttle headed back to camp 1.

I got back to camp 1, and didn’t realize how late it was, but I wasn’t tired. I did know that I had to wake early in order to catch my flight, but Dustin asked if I could tell some of the group the reason I came.

I told them about the way this country is headed, how police brutality is running rampant, how this administration spends more money to build prisons than schools or hospitals. And I said that there are thousands of Cindy Sheehans in this country who want to ask the president why we are in a country that doesn’t want us there, why children who can’t read or write can be sent a fight a war, and why we can’t take care of our elderly or the vets when they come back home.

I saw a sign that read “WHILE THE PRESIDENT GOES FISHING, 82 MEN HAVE DIED.” Mr. President, we have spent almost $300 billion on this war, a war that most of the world is against. WHY?

As I boarded my plane in Houston, headed back home, my thoughts went to my police blue lights, my bright lights that are just in the poor areas of town, to my elected officials who seem to turn their backs on the citizens, my city of police intimidation and corruption, to my city where I can see garbage piled up outside a school and underneath a sign that says “BELIEVE.” I must ask WHY?

People, keep up the struggle.