Five Seconds on a Bridge

There is a pedestrian bridge that crosses over Lincoln Memorial Drive in Milwaukee. It connects Brady Street to Veteran’s Park on Lake Michigan. Two days ago, after dropping off my grandson at school, I walked to the bridge. On it, I saw three young people hanging a Palestinian flag over the railing for the oncoming traffic to see.

I approached the group and then, on a whim, stood across from them, leaning against the railing on my side of the bridge. They were busy watching the cars below us and waiting for the next honk of a horn.

I asked no one in particular, “So, is this doing any good?”

I asked because, for many years, I protested in a similar way. I was involved with different causes back then, but the methods don’t really change. I marched and carried signs, and that isn’t much different from hanging a flag for all to see.

A young woman with glasses and dark hair looked at me and said, “Yes, it does some good. Why are you here?”

“I just took my grandson, Asher, to the Waldorf school.”

The young guy next to her asked, “What kind of name is that? It sounds Slavic.”

“No, it’s Hebrew. His name means ‘Happy.’” The young woman smiled, then told me her name. It was Arabic.

I told her, “I have Israeli friends and Palestinian friends. The situation is complicated.”

At that moment, she launched into a passionate monologue filled with pro-Palestinian talking points. She made it clear that, to her, the situation was not complicated at all. Her talk was a bit tedious because I had already heard much of what she was saying many times before. To a large extent, I agree with her. The killing needs to stop. The Israeli response in the Gaza war is grossly disproportionate. But is what she and her companions were doing right now of any real use?

I sighed and said, “I am not entirely ignorant.”

Then I asked her, “What about the Israelis? What happens to them in the long run? Do they get displaced? Seventy-five percent of them were born in Israel.”

The young woman snapped back, “But their parents probably weren’t born there! My people have been there for generations. I am Palestinian, and I have just been back there, and it is worse than I have ever seen it.”

The young man chimed in, “The Israelis can just move to the U.S. Most of them have family here anyway.”

“Wow,” I thought, “I don’t think he has thought this through.”

The three of them told me more about the situation in Palestine. I already knew a lot about it. They peppered their comments with words like “Zionist,” “Imperialist,” “Colonialist,” “Capitalist,” and “Racist.” I hate that. Those adjectives are like “woke”: they can mean nothing or anything. They are just emotional triggers that get people wound up.

After they stopped proselytizing, I explained, “I used to do what you are doing now. I was very much antiwar. I used to stand on a corner downtown in the cold winter of 2002 protesting the probable invasion of Iraq. Well, we invaded Iraq anyway. And my oldest son enlisted and went to war there.”

The Palestinian woman said, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?” I asked, my voice full of pain.

“Yes, I am. Nobody should get sent to fight this country’s wars.”

I went on, “I got busted for civil disobedience. I went to jail for protests. I did all this. I did not get what I wanted. My point is that all you’re going to get here is maybe five seconds of a driver’s attention. You might get a few honks. Maybe one out of a hundred drivers will remember your demonstration and maybe write their congressman. Maybe one out of a thousand will get involved. We may all be long dead before there is peace. It might take three generations before things are better. What you are doing is an act of faith.”

The young woman replied, “It’s more than an act of faith. I owe this to my family, to my people. I am living here in the heart of the empire, with all these privileges, and this is the least I can do for the Palestinians.”

I had to respect her. She was sincere. She was standing up for her belief in justice. She was an honorable person.

An older woman came across the bridge. She walked slowly between us, wearing an olive drab sweatshirt that said “Israel Defense Forces.” I had to smile. It was a subtle and silent counterprotest.

I told the young woman, “I donate money to SAMS, the Syrian American Medical Society. I wanted to help the people in Gaza without getting anybody killed.”

She nodded.

Then I said, “I also give money to Magen David Adom, the Israeli version of the Red Cross.”

She frowned. “You know, a lot of the money that is given to these humanitarian organizations flows directly to the Israeli government.”

I rolled my eyes. What she said was the mirror image of what people told me about Palestinian aid groups: “It all goes straight to Hamas.”

I asked her, “Would you prefer that I only donate to Palestinian groups?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is all I can do. I’m not willing to wave a flag.”

She shrugged.

Then she said, “You’re an empathetic and thoughtful person. We come here a couple of times a week. Come over and talk with us some more, if you like.”

“I don’t know if I will. I have to care for my grandson. You know, I believe that names have meaning. A person becomes their name. My name is Frank, and it means ‘Free,’ although I don’t know if I match the name yet. What does your name mean?”

She said, “It means ‘A gift of God.’”

“And that you are…and so is everyone else.”

They got ready to leave.

I said to the woman, “Be blessed.”

She replied, “You too.”

Yesterday morning, I returned to the bridge. There was a different team with their flags and banners.

I saw a little blonde girl on her tricycle at the far end of the bridge. A woman, apparently her mother, was kneeling on the bridge drawing with chalk.

I looked down at what she was writing. She had written:

“LOVE, LOVE, PALESTINIAN RESISTANCE”

Below that she wrote:

“DEATH, DEATH TO THE IDF”

I have a friend whose son was in the IDF. I said to the woman, “I don’t think that helps much.”

She didn’t bother to look up at me. She chanted slowly and softly, “Death, death to the IDF.”

Then she said, “Oh, this does help.”

I just walked away.

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Frank (Francis) Pauc is a graduate of West Point, Class of 1980. He completed the Military Intelligence Basic Course at Fort Huachuca and then went to Flight School at Fort Rucker. Frank was stationed with the 3rd Armor Division in West Germany at Fliegerhorst Airfield from December 1981 to January 1985. He flew Hueys and Black Hawks and was next assigned to the 7th Infantry Division at Fort Ord, CA. He got the hell out of the Army in August 1986.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.