Early last Saturday morning five Asheville buses joined hundreds of thousands of Americans in our nation’s capital to protest another war with Iraq. The Western North Carolina Peace Coalition chartered the buses. I was privileged to join the almost 300 people that rode them. They were old and young, veteran activist and first-timer, hippie, yuppie, well off and well, broke. They came with their families and friends and they came alone. They consisted of every label you could give or every characteristic you could take from them. Everyone, whatever their background, though, went to DC to join what the Washington Post called the biggest peace rally since the Vietnam War.

Friday 9 p.m.: Clear and cold at the Westgate parking lot. A nearby bank clock blinks 16 degrees, and the brisk wind blows right through my long underwear. I regret not drying my boots out in the oven prior to the trip, and move to check in as quickly as I can.

After a brief hustle I get my ticket and get on the last bus, which has just pulled up. It is near empty, but fills up quickly. I end up sitting in a three-seat row with Terri and her three-year-old daughter, Anna. I say hello to her in the nicest way possible but she shies away from me and hugs on to mamma, all the while giving me a sidelong glance. Terri assures me she’s just tired and introduces me to Greg and Will, husband and son, in the adjacent row. They are from Mars Hill. So are many others.

Around us everyone chats with their own. Then a lady up front takes a plate from her boyfriend’s backpack and passes it around. When it comes back to us, it is full of coconut-peanutbutter-truffle-brownie thing. I eat a piece. It’s delicious, and it relaxes a little tension. We pass the plate back up.

After a while on the road Jim Brown, the contact person for the Asheville Peace Fellowhip, begins introductions on the mic. He started with himself and passed it on to the next passenger. One ex-Marine with 18 years of military experience said that in her service she’d swore to protect the country from threats both foreign and domestic. In her opinion President Bush fell under the latter, and so she was going to the protest. Two cited their involvement in the Martin Luther King Jr. march on DC 40 years earlier. Some spouted political ideology. Everyone, though, came to add their voice to those calling for peace, to rise above what one of the passengers called ‘passive armchair bickering.’ The people wanted to be what I wanted to be, a voice that does more than just complain.



Saturday 7 a.m.: We had nearly arrived, and were moving through downtown on our way to the church that had offered us sanctuary. The Washington Monument was the first familiar sight to come into view, then the Jefferson Memorial passed us on the left behind the Pentagon. A full moon was still looming in the dark clear upper sky over its rebuilt wing. We crossed a still and icy Potomac, and the sights faded from view.

Outside the Tacoma Park Presbyterian Church, a sign mounted on 4x4’s read, “Let Justice Roll Down Like Waters.” I thought to myself how devastating that could really be. A strong-eyed woman named Mary directed our crowd in the basement of the church. She taught us how to give greetings in four languages. Strong-eyed Mary led the crowd in a moment of silence, followed by a dance for peace that incorporated the peace of the third language, Russian. Mir. If only she spoke Korean, too.



Saturday 11 a.m.: Long-separated from the North Carolinians, I join two guys from Pennsylvania — Al and Steve, from Lancaster. We walk from Union Station to the rally, which is quickly gathering force at a giant sound stage across from the capitol building. Speakers are already inciting the crowd to peace. One speaker, John Deer, congratulates the crowd on being “the largest preemptive peace movement in the history of the world!” He continues his speech, which bubbles into a crowd-chant of “No War on Iraq.” Speakers keep coming to the podium: the founder of Black Voices for Peace, Rep. John Conyers, and Ramsey Clark (former attorney general).

Saturday 3 p.m.: I weave back to the sound stage just as the last speaker steps on. He’s just followed Luci Murphy and Pam Parker — two strong, beautiful women — singing “Mother’s Day” by Peter Jones, about the countless civilian casualties of war. The music was soft and the lyrics were penetrating. Even later when I will recall it in my head the song will still me, will stop me from what I am doing.

I live in a dump

My landlord’s no good

I clean a house

In a rich neighborhood.

You take my money

You think I don’t see

You spend it to fire

On women like me.

The march to the DC Naval Shipyard begins. A group ahead of me wave a banner with a hand pointing to a presidential seal, and the phrase, “I’m NOT with Stupid.” They chant to a caustic drumbeat, “Hey, Bush, we know you/Your daddy was a killer too!” Other signs read “We are NOT the light of the world,” “I love my dad too, but Jeez!” and the runner up, “Mainstream White Guys for Peace.” The winner is a brown-haired girl on the sidewalk holding a sign reading, “Invading Iraq is so 10 years ago!”

Cops line the sidewalks, and amass at the intersections. I ask them how many people are here. I get answers like 30,000, 40,000, and “oh, I stopped counting at 100.” Protest organizers say upwards of a million. The police are even utilizing the Guardian Angels today. The march runs into two pockets of resistance. None is physical. The march is a nonviolent protest, and the pro-war groups out to counteract it respect it as so. The first is at 600 Penn Ave., where three guys wearing nice coats stand on a balcony next to signs reading, “Go Home Hippies,” and “College Republicans for Bush.”

The cops rope off the second group of pro-war demonstrators. They shout and carry signs like, “Saddam Disarm Is My Answer,” “Pacifists Are Parasites of Freedom,” “Need to burn a flag? Wrap yourself up in it first.” I talk to a guy named Rob Beret. He seems the most moderate of the group, and carries a sign reading, “God Bless Our Military.” He says his group is about 100 strong. I count around 20.

We don’t get into political ideology, for obvious reasons. I ask him why he’s here. “To give my opinion in response to what I think are misguided people and misguided opinions,” he says. He salutes one protester for having a good sign. Another he calls ignorant, in response to a crass comment.



Saturday 9 p.m.: I got back to the church around seven. An early bus is about to leave and I’m not on it, despite my best efforts. Anna is, and I hop on to say goodbye to these new friends. Anna wants me to stay. I say my final goodbyes to her and her family, Will, Greg, Terri, and wave to everyone as I step off. I walk back to the church as the bus begins revving its engines, sending thick diesel exhaust to coat the crisp night winter air.

The next morning we trudged back to NC. I sat with Zayt this time around. We shared some interesting banter. The trip was longer and harder when we couldn’t pass the time in the dark. But then it would have been easier to just stay at home all weekend. After all, I’m not the typical activist. I’m not a “Hippie” to “Go Home.”

Few of these people are. Anna, Terri, Lee, Zayt, and numerous others all had an impact on me because they’re not hippies, or yuppies, or granolas. They may know alot about the war. They may know little. It doesn’t matter. How much do you need to know to know that something’s wrong? Reasons fill the holes of doubt. They’re good for that. But right and wrong are not determined by reason or logic, and they never will be. Murder is still murder, even if a government sanctions it.

In the end what matters is what counts. Voices are counted, when they’re heard, and last weekend, a good many voices were heard. Between 30,000 and a million, depending on who you ask. Enough to be counted. There’s something I can’t do from my armchair.