Militarism

I am writing this in a city closed down by virtual martial law, described tactfully by police officials as "shelter in place". The manhunt for the remaining bombing suspect of the Boston Marathon Bombing of April 15th has led to the killing of one young man from Chechnya and one college-police officer. A second Chechen man is being hunted. There does not seem to be much progress with this extreme approach to bring him in.

 

Violence begets violence. Fear propagates fear. Oppression pressurizes reactions. Terrorism succeeds.

 

Yesterday, as we sat in a static subway station, no credible explanation was given for the lack of transportation. Soldiers in military fatigues and body armor were everywhere. When we left the train station, having decided to abandon our trip into the center of the city, we boarded a shuttle bus for the state university, so we could walk along the harbor. The shuttle bus was nearly empty. There were perhaps six students aboard, other than Peter and I. Two soldiers in body armor and fatigues boarded the shuttle and walked up the aisles inspecting every empty seat and us.

 

During the anti-war protests of the 1960s and 1970s, hundreds of thousands of concerned Americans poured onto streets and into parks in this city to stand up against violence, against fear of government and against oppression. A military presence like the current one may have exploded into civil war, especially after the cold-blooded murder of peaceful protesters by National Guard at Kent State University.

 

I am shocked by the complacency of the local media in this situation. Not one comment has reached my ears concerning the suspension of civil liberties by the government in a metro area of three million people. We have been ordered to not leave our houses, not to drive and not to walk the streets. I received a phone call from the city government to this effect this morning.

 

Perhaps the only light side to my experience of this militarism this morning is the appearance of the sewer construction crew who went about digging up the same hole at the center of our street for the fifth time. Apparently, when all else grinds to a halt, the toilet remains sacrosanct.