I continue to follow you and encourage others to do the same. You are a voice in the wilderness, courageous and bold, as you continue to rescue our country by your fearless and intrepid dedication to truth and justice as you uncover and disclose the deliberate deceptions, falsehoods and infamies of our far-reaching deceitful and dissembling Trump regime.
But thank your especially for the gracious gift of sharing with us a sensitive glimpse into your family history. You continue to honor it by your passionate commitment to truth and justice.
This made me think of a man I never met. My grandfather Mario was one of four brothers from Milan. His youngest brother, Cleto, died in Eritrea serving Italy, before I was born.
Years later I lived in America long enough to absorb another country’s wars, memorials, flags, veterans, grief, and the strange repetition by which every generation mourns what the previous generation apparently failed to prevent.
Perhaps to you the dead are saying : " live while you can."
But I hear another call... " Change what killed us while you can."
I was especially moved by Eunice’s reading. I happened to inadvertently hear this audio while I was in a funk doing the morning dishes overload - with the usual family din in the background. Ha!
Chris, your piece carried me back to Westover AFB during the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was in Springfield, MA, near Boston.
I was six years old, in first grade, and had never spent a day of my life living anywhere but an Air Force base. One night the klaxon horns awakened us. Men in bright orange flight suits came racing out of the fourplexes, carrying dark-green flight bags and goggled helmets. They drove like madmen toward the flight line.
Soon the whole base seemed to rise into the darkness: B-52 Stratofortresses armed with nuclear weapons; KC-135 Stratotankers climbing after them to keep the bombers aloft; and F-102 Delta Dagger interceptors screaming skyward, some soon breaking the sound barrier as they raced toward the Atlantic.
Our mothers gathered on the front lawns with babies under their arms and their children (my sister was four)… and watched. We children had almost no idea what we were witnessing.
One of those pilots was my father. Before flying B-52s, he had graduated at the top of his USAF F-100 fighter class. If the confrontation with Khrushchev and the Soviet Union had crossed that final line, my father would have been one of the men sent across the world carrying its possible destruction.
And yet, strangely, what I remember most vividly happened in the backyard of that same 4-plex around the same time, maybe before, maybe a bit later. Our backyard bordered one of the runways.
I was digging furiously into the hard earth with a spoon. When my father asked what I was doing, I proudly told him I was digging to China. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. Later, he would write is Master’s Thesis (from Maxwell AFB near Montgomery in 1963), on the topic: Soviet-Sino Border Relations.
My father died in the late 1980s, but I can still hear that laughter.
Only now do I understand the terrible symmetry. The adults had built machines capable of reaching the other side of the world to destroy it. I believed I could reach it with a spoon.
Perhaps our future lies somewhere in the distance between the bomber and the spoon—in recovering what a child understands before fear teaches him otherwise: that the people on the other side of the Earth are there to be reached, not erased.
Maybe that is what I hear the dead saying: Reach them before the weapons do. The Eggman
Dear Chris, At 53, I resigned from a post as inspector of education in the UK. It was a rare opportunity for me to be appointed in such a post. I was challenged. I chose other ways of using my modest gifts. For one who was born and grew up on an island administered by Great Britain, a colony, I do not hear the voices or read the words of ex-colonials and soldiers with much empathy. Your voice is different. It must be because of the strong line of integrity, knowledge and conviviality of your legacy. Sure, we return to the Almighty with nothing but I do believe that we can leave behind more than property and wealth - we leave the values you mentioned in your story of your heritage. God bless.Bismillah Kader
I heard this as the death of a brave and different man, Jason Arday sends shock waves through our country. I was so so moved, thank you. Each precious moment,
An awakening in Hedges clear, emotional words. Grateful. Very grateful.
Dear Chris,
I continue to follow you and encourage others to do the same. You are a voice in the wilderness, courageous and bold, as you continue to rescue our country by your fearless and intrepid dedication to truth and justice as you uncover and disclose the deliberate deceptions, falsehoods and infamies of our far-reaching deceitful and dissembling Trump regime.
But thank your especially for the gracious gift of sharing with us a sensitive glimpse into your family history. You continue to honor it by your passionate commitment to truth and justice.
Wow ! Read the piece early this morning; so glad Eunice voiced it for our ears by evening - brilliant collaboration.
what a beautiful family you have. How fortunate for the world they inspired and encouraged you to write and speak out. Thnk you both.
This made me think of a man I never met. My grandfather Mario was one of four brothers from Milan. His youngest brother, Cleto, died in Eritrea serving Italy, before I was born.
Years later I lived in America long enough to absorb another country’s wars, memorials, flags, veterans, grief, and the strange repetition by which every generation mourns what the previous generation apparently failed to prevent.
Perhaps to you the dead are saying : " live while you can."
But I hear another call... " Change what killed us while you can."
Thank you, as always, Chris, a Bodhisattva. Deep resonances, for many of us reared in a more thoughtful time…
Harrowing, beautiful and heartening.
I was especially moved by Eunice’s reading. I happened to inadvertently hear this audio while I was in a funk doing the morning dishes overload - with the usual family din in the background. Ha!
Thanks again.
Chris, your piece carried me back to Westover AFB during the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was in Springfield, MA, near Boston.
I was six years old, in first grade, and had never spent a day of my life living anywhere but an Air Force base. One night the klaxon horns awakened us. Men in bright orange flight suits came racing out of the fourplexes, carrying dark-green flight bags and goggled helmets. They drove like madmen toward the flight line.
Soon the whole base seemed to rise into the darkness: B-52 Stratofortresses armed with nuclear weapons; KC-135 Stratotankers climbing after them to keep the bombers aloft; and F-102 Delta Dagger interceptors screaming skyward, some soon breaking the sound barrier as they raced toward the Atlantic.
Our mothers gathered on the front lawns with babies under their arms and their children (my sister was four)… and watched. We children had almost no idea what we were witnessing.
One of those pilots was my father. Before flying B-52s, he had graduated at the top of his USAF F-100 fighter class. If the confrontation with Khrushchev and the Soviet Union had crossed that final line, my father would have been one of the men sent across the world carrying its possible destruction.
And yet, strangely, what I remember most vividly happened in the backyard of that same 4-plex around the same time, maybe before, maybe a bit later. Our backyard bordered one of the runways.
I was digging furiously into the hard earth with a spoon. When my father asked what I was doing, I proudly told him I was digging to China. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. Later, he would write is Master’s Thesis (from Maxwell AFB near Montgomery in 1963), on the topic: Soviet-Sino Border Relations.
My father died in the late 1980s, but I can still hear that laughter.
Only now do I understand the terrible symmetry. The adults had built machines capable of reaching the other side of the world to destroy it. I believed I could reach it with a spoon.
Perhaps our future lies somewhere in the distance between the bomber and the spoon—in recovering what a child understands before fear teaches him otherwise: that the people on the other side of the Earth are there to be reached, not erased.
Maybe that is what I hear the dead saying: Reach them before the weapons do. The Eggman
Beautiful acting by Eunice Wong.♥️ I actually had tears in my eyes. And of course, beautiful writing by Chris Hedges.🕉
Dear Chris, At 53, I resigned from a post as inspector of education in the UK. It was a rare opportunity for me to be appointed in such a post. I was challenged. I chose other ways of using my modest gifts. For one who was born and grew up on an island administered by Great Britain, a colony, I do not hear the voices or read the words of ex-colonials and soldiers with much empathy. Your voice is different. It must be because of the strong line of integrity, knowledge and conviviality of your legacy. Sure, we return to the Almighty with nothing but I do believe that we can leave behind more than property and wealth - we leave the values you mentioned in your story of your heritage. God bless.Bismillah Kader
Thank you Chris,
I heard this as the death of a brave and different man, Jason Arday sends shock waves through our country. I was so so moved, thank you. Each precious moment,
go well, Helen
We don't die.
Life is a passage where we percieve, feel and leave a footprint.