women against war

Trojan Women Do not say this is for me, that you do this for me, to protect me, this time. It is your war and not mine. Your war and not mine. The warrior god mars is hot in me rising and rising, I grace this not. Your war, not mine. It is not mars, this moon that looks down upon us, not Mars this gentle moon, as it so often smiles down upon me as I look up in wonder, in praise and reverence, the moon smiling down upon me. The wars of my fathers, the wars of my mothers, my deep heart remembers, my deep shaking wounded heart trembles. I am war, a product of war, made by, made from, made of wars, the War to-End-All-Wars, The Great War, and all the wars reaching back so far as to erase themselves in memory. And, I am weary. Steadfast for a thousand years, I, the-daughter-of-wars, have stood my watch on that mountain, above my village, at the ready, holding the flame high that would light the beacon and send it across our deep green valleys, of the beloved motherland, sending from peak to peak, the warning that the boats, they are coming again. And, I, daughter of that fair isle, will be raped again by the men in the boats, the ravages of war, raped again and I will survive to stand watch on my mountain and wait for you to come home from the wars, the endless wars, and return to me. I wait still for you to come home. The atom bomb of war rises in me over-hot, surely as sun flares flinging long arms, the deadly, long-reaching tentacles of war out into dead, deep space. Will it ever change? The flares, ove-hot as the sun, rising and rising, the call to war, to grab us by our collective throats and fling us far, so far, past the outer reaches of space, the comfort of our known and familiar stars, that which we-have-named and call our own, these stars. I feel it rising, the call to war. Relaxed and paying attention, I simply sit. I sit, a monk burning for war, burning against war, I sit, just sit and observe the pain, relaxed and paying attention. Adrift, I am in the unknown. I accept this. In the unknown, I accept this, this place where I find myself to be, where I am now. This netherland of vast quiet space and I am quiet. I am quiet, relaxed and paying attention. And will stay here in the vast….unknown adrift, in the stillness of not knowing and wait for this nothingness and be in this nothingness and, for now, I will call it peace. I am the daughter, I am the sister, I am the wife, the mother. I am a Trojan woman, a warrior woman strong and brave who says finally….. This is enough. This is enough. No more wars. Do not say that you do this for me, that you make your wars for me, for our sons and for our daughters. No more deaths for us, in our names. You protect us not. You protect nothing. I will not bury another son, another brother, another lover, another beloved. I will not love you anymore, I will not love you nor let you touch me nor come to me in my bed and lie down with me if you make another war again in my name. It is not my war, it is not our war, it is not war for me, our sons or our daughters that a woman would make. The fine things, I do not want. The spoils of war, I do not want: the gold, the gems, the palaces, the trophies of your war, the fine translucent clothing that show my body in its fullness, in the fullness of its beauty to entice your hand to touch me and make me tremble with fear the price you have me pay. My sons and daughters the sacrifice to your gods of war. You make me tremble with fear at the price I pay, the trophies of your war that I want not. The spoils of your war. Do not say this is for me, this is to protect me, when you take from me my sons, my darling ones, my precious daughters raped and murdered and gone forever for nothing, save your war. I will give to you no more. You will touch me no more. I will give to you no more your sons and, I will give to you no more your daughters, until there is no more war. Daughter of the Great War, daughter of the War-to-End-All-Wars, daughter, child of VietNam war watching as they, the monks, alight themselves, lighting up as-the-sun, aflame towards the sun,fly, lighting up the sky. They sit, just sit, relaxed and paying attention, and die. For us. They say no more, the monks, they say no more war and die, quiet. Daughter of war, I extend to you the olive branch and say to you, let there be peace at last. by Lesley Constable