Dear Mr. President,
I've been a particular fan of former President Carter since he wrote his book Palestine: Peace, not Apartheid. His courage in speaking frankly about human rights abuses so many other American leaders are happy to ignore impressed me. When I heard today that he'd taken ill, I was worried, but it sounds as though his book tour will resume. I'm glad that he's healthy enough to continue, especially because his tour include as stop at my own bookstore, on a night I work. While the events staff have hinted that making a "Jimmy Carter's #1 fan 4 life" T-shirt might not exactly convey the appropriate level of decorum, I will be nonetheless enthusiastic for the President's visit.
Other news today has reminded me why President Carter's willingness to speak out about the oppression of the Palestinian people is so important. The results of the autopsy of Furkan Dogan, the Turkish-American boy who was executed by Israeli soldiers on the Mavi Marmara reveal that he was fatally shot in the face while already lying down and wounded. It's heartbreaking evidence of the violent way Israel's government is willing to respond to the threat posed by humanitarian activists. I'm sure your administration has seen the forensics report, and the findings of the UN mission. I hope that you find the courage President Carter has displayed, and call out these continued human rights violations for what they really are.
Tonight my thoughts are with President Carter, wishing him a speedy recovery, and also with you, in the hopes that you do not lose sight of what is really important.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Showing posts with label Mavi Marmara. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mavi Marmara. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Day 156- No one died.
Dear Mr. President,
No one died. That's how I answered my friend when she asked what happened to the Rachel Corrie. Certainly not for the first time in my life, I've had to readjust my threshold for acceptable behavior. I felt this frustration often when I worked as Loss Prevention, and often found myself thinking "Well, this person is drunk and disruptive, but at least they aren't smoking crack in the magazine section." (Yes, that actually happened.) It isn't that I think it's acceptable for Israel to prevent cement and building material from reaching the people of Gaza, for them to board ships and forcibly redirect them; but no one died, so I guess that's acceptable behavior, now. Or, they might have shot a girl's eye out during a protest, but at least they didn't crush her with a bulldozer. Is the behavior actually getting better or am I just become numb to the smaller injustices because of all the larger ones?
I'm tired and frustrated and finished adjusting my tolerance for injustice by this nation that we protect like it's our younger sibling. I caught sight of my reflection today, the silver necklace I wear, which is an outline of Palestine, suddenly looked delicate and fragile, a leaf that might be carried away or crushed at any moment. Isn't that how Israel impresses it's vulnerability upon visitors? Helicopter tours designed to show off how endangered it still is? This recent act of violence will not tempt me to the same folly that Israel has fallen to. I don't call for violence, for the inversion of the oppressed into the oppressors, for the fear I feel to become a weapon of some one else's destruction. I just want it to end. I just want the world to wake up and see the injustice we have perpetuated without any one else having to die to prove it. I know it isn't that simple and it isn't that easy and if there were some obvious solution we'd all leap at it. I am just so heavy with grief, these days.
So I'm not going to ramble any more, when words have long ceased to be enough. I'm going to sleep for a few hours and hope things look better tomorrow.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
No one died. That's how I answered my friend when she asked what happened to the Rachel Corrie. Certainly not for the first time in my life, I've had to readjust my threshold for acceptable behavior. I felt this frustration often when I worked as Loss Prevention, and often found myself thinking "Well, this person is drunk and disruptive, but at least they aren't smoking crack in the magazine section." (Yes, that actually happened.) It isn't that I think it's acceptable for Israel to prevent cement and building material from reaching the people of Gaza, for them to board ships and forcibly redirect them; but no one died, so I guess that's acceptable behavior, now. Or, they might have shot a girl's eye out during a protest, but at least they didn't crush her with a bulldozer. Is the behavior actually getting better or am I just become numb to the smaller injustices because of all the larger ones?
I'm tired and frustrated and finished adjusting my tolerance for injustice by this nation that we protect like it's our younger sibling. I caught sight of my reflection today, the silver necklace I wear, which is an outline of Palestine, suddenly looked delicate and fragile, a leaf that might be carried away or crushed at any moment. Isn't that how Israel impresses it's vulnerability upon visitors? Helicopter tours designed to show off how endangered it still is? This recent act of violence will not tempt me to the same folly that Israel has fallen to. I don't call for violence, for the inversion of the oppressed into the oppressors, for the fear I feel to become a weapon of some one else's destruction. I just want it to end. I just want the world to wake up and see the injustice we have perpetuated without any one else having to die to prove it. I know it isn't that simple and it isn't that easy and if there were some obvious solution we'd all leap at it. I am just so heavy with grief, these days.
So I'm not going to ramble any more, when words have long ceased to be enough. I'm going to sleep for a few hours and hope things look better tomorrow.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Day 154- The Millennials
Dear Mr. President,
I was pleasantly surprised to learn tonight that my generation has a name. We are, apparently, the Millennials. (I don't recall being asked for input when this name was chosen. I doubt I'd have approved, but I suppose it's better than "Generation Y") Timothy Egan is calling on us to "save" our country from the boomers. I have a lot of respect for Mr. Egan, and I did find it surprising to learn that more 18-29 year olds voted in 2008 than those over 65. This has clearly not escaped the notice of Organizing For America, which almost daily contacts me asking for participation or support. I am comforted by this. Demographics are on my side, as the ruling class of this country grows (slowly) younger, my hope is that things will (slowly) improve. I think Egan's points are well-taken; my generation's views on gay rights, environmental issues and the wars launched under President Bush may have been ahead of our time and now widely accepted. However, our participation has done little to fundamentally change the system or the way we ourselves are perceived by those in power. (Evidenced even here, by Egan's quip about our ability to leave our facebook pages long enough to elect you, forgetting, perhaps, the role that social networking and blogs played in that election.)
This thought strikes me most often when I am asked about my tattoos. I have seven, and will soon have eight. According to a recent post on the freakonomics blog, 36 percent of 18-25 year olds, and 40 percent of 26-40 year olds have tattoos. When people express their concern that the body art I have no will be detrimental to my professional success, I like to consider this statistic. I currently have a job where, despite making less than $10/hour and having little to no consequence in society, I have to keep my tattoos covered up. I respect that, as my employer, this company can make me wear whatever it pleases. I do not generally find that my tattoos affect my ability to make coffee, or my customer's enjoyment of said coffee. While I do think that my tattoos say something about me as a person, I don't think that having tattoos in general does. I reject the notion that they make me less professional or respectable, and that is because I respect myself (and my professionalism) more than I care for the opinions of those who would judge me on what they see. (Arrogance? Perhaps. I'll call it self-assurance and be quite content to keep it. ) My generation's willingness to accept a person for what is on the inside may largely be attributed to the often-faceless modes of interaction we have with one another online, and helps us to get past the kind of appearance-based prejudices that still hinder our parents.
But my generation has our faults, too. We often mistake awareness for action; blogging about something or updating our facebook status to support a cause is fine and good, but we vote most effectively with our dollar, and too many of us forget our idealism once we have to put money on it. Our demographic being among the most targeted by advertisers, we ought to have a greater impact on the policies of those companies whose products we consume than we do our government. I have many friends who are game for any kind of political discussion or debate, but who grow defensive and angry when their own purchasing decisions are called into question. If we're really going to steer this country in a better direction than our parents, we have to put our money where our well-intentioned tweets are.
I respect your and OFA's efforts to engage us; I can offer my personal pledge to do my part to help elect progressive candidates in 2010. But beyond voting, beyond organizing voting efforts, my generation has to do more. Egan, and OFA, are not asking us to save the country with our progressive vision, they're asking us to do so by electing the last generation of progressives. To show up on election day, and then to let the grown-ups take things from there. I think it's time that more of us ran for local, state and federal office ourselves; that we begin shaping our destinies through direct participation and not just by voting.
Finally, I'd like to acknowledge the death of one Millennial, Turkish-American Furkan Dogan, who, at 19, was killed on the Mavi Marmara, attempting to do bring hope and aid to the people of Gaza. His death ought to remind all of us, young and old, to honor those giving their lives for justice. If we had more elected officials willing to demonstrate this kind of courage, perhaps the youth of this nation would not be called upon to do it for them.
And now, I return to my mindless social networking. See you on Election Day.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
I was pleasantly surprised to learn tonight that my generation has a name. We are, apparently, the Millennials. (I don't recall being asked for input when this name was chosen. I doubt I'd have approved, but I suppose it's better than "Generation Y") Timothy Egan is calling on us to "save" our country from the boomers. I have a lot of respect for Mr. Egan, and I did find it surprising to learn that more 18-29 year olds voted in 2008 than those over 65. This has clearly not escaped the notice of Organizing For America, which almost daily contacts me asking for participation or support. I am comforted by this. Demographics are on my side, as the ruling class of this country grows (slowly) younger, my hope is that things will (slowly) improve. I think Egan's points are well-taken; my generation's views on gay rights, environmental issues and the wars launched under President Bush may have been ahead of our time and now widely accepted. However, our participation has done little to fundamentally change the system or the way we ourselves are perceived by those in power. (Evidenced even here, by Egan's quip about our ability to leave our facebook pages long enough to elect you, forgetting, perhaps, the role that social networking and blogs played in that election.)
This thought strikes me most often when I am asked about my tattoos. I have seven, and will soon have eight. According to a recent post on the freakonomics blog, 36 percent of 18-25 year olds, and 40 percent of 26-40 year olds have tattoos. When people express their concern that the body art I have no will be detrimental to my professional success, I like to consider this statistic. I currently have a job where, despite making less than $10/hour and having little to no consequence in society, I have to keep my tattoos covered up. I respect that, as my employer, this company can make me wear whatever it pleases. I do not generally find that my tattoos affect my ability to make coffee, or my customer's enjoyment of said coffee. While I do think that my tattoos say something about me as a person, I don't think that having tattoos in general does. I reject the notion that they make me less professional or respectable, and that is because I respect myself (and my professionalism) more than I care for the opinions of those who would judge me on what they see. (Arrogance? Perhaps. I'll call it self-assurance and be quite content to keep it. ) My generation's willingness to accept a person for what is on the inside may largely be attributed to the often-faceless modes of interaction we have with one another online, and helps us to get past the kind of appearance-based prejudices that still hinder our parents.
But my generation has our faults, too. We often mistake awareness for action; blogging about something or updating our facebook status to support a cause is fine and good, but we vote most effectively with our dollar, and too many of us forget our idealism once we have to put money on it. Our demographic being among the most targeted by advertisers, we ought to have a greater impact on the policies of those companies whose products we consume than we do our government. I have many friends who are game for any kind of political discussion or debate, but who grow defensive and angry when their own purchasing decisions are called into question. If we're really going to steer this country in a better direction than our parents, we have to put our money where our well-intentioned tweets are.
I respect your and OFA's efforts to engage us; I can offer my personal pledge to do my part to help elect progressive candidates in 2010. But beyond voting, beyond organizing voting efforts, my generation has to do more. Egan, and OFA, are not asking us to save the country with our progressive vision, they're asking us to do so by electing the last generation of progressives. To show up on election day, and then to let the grown-ups take things from there. I think it's time that more of us ran for local, state and federal office ourselves; that we begin shaping our destinies through direct participation and not just by voting.
Finally, I'd like to acknowledge the death of one Millennial, Turkish-American Furkan Dogan, who, at 19, was killed on the Mavi Marmara, attempting to do bring hope and aid to the people of Gaza. His death ought to remind all of us, young and old, to honor those giving their lives for justice. If we had more elected officials willing to demonstrate this kind of courage, perhaps the youth of this nation would not be called upon to do it for them.
And now, I return to my mindless social networking. See you on Election Day.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Day 152- Rachel Corrie
Dear Mr. President,
Another ship is heading toward Gaza. Israel has vowed, once again, to stop it with force. Right now, today, this moment is when you need to personally intervene. You can't tell me that you didn't see the earlier tragedy coming- any one with even a casual engagement in the region saw the calamity rushing towards the Mavi Marmara and its crew with the speed of an IDF helicopter. The Rachel Corrie and her crew will be facing the same calamity, soon. Israel will not hesitate to react the same way. We can express regret at the loss of life, call for investigations and demand resolution to the humanitarian crisis in Gaza all we want; but we must first call on Israel not to use deadly force against another humanitarian vessel and the brave souls on board. Outrage will not bring back the 9 dead, but swift, decisive political action could save lives when (and not if) the next confrontation occurs. The siege of Gaza must end, the blockade will be broken, and no amount of bloodshed now will deter further attempts. Israel is now discovering the power of peaceful, determined civilians willing to give their lives to ease the suffering of others; fear of that power could lead to more irrational violence.
Perhaps it is fitting that this ship is named after Rachel Corrie. I wonder, sometimes, if she was surprised when the soldier driving the bulldozer didn't stop, and, had she known, would she have stood her ground? I think she would have. I think the ship that bears her name is full of people who, knowing full well that the helicopters and the commandos will come, that the bulldozer will not stop, are standing up to stop the destruction. They deserve our respect, our support, and, God knows, our protection. Mr. President, you may not have been able to save the 9 dead aboard the Mavi Marmara, but you can save the crew of the Corrie. You, alone, can wield the diplomatic influence to have any hope of stopping an attack on this ship.
I think the point I'm trying to make is that people shouldn't have to die trying to bring supplies to Gaza. People shouldn't have to die trying to protect homes from being destroyed. The International community, and especially the United States, should make the consequences for these kind of human rights abuses so debilitating that no nation would dare conduct itself in this manner and still call itself our ally. These brave people are taking on the responsibility that should belong to all of us, as citizens of this planet. We should stand with them; Israel should be made to know that an attack against the Rachel Corrie is an attack against the United States of America. Don't make them stand alone, Mr. President.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Another ship is heading toward Gaza. Israel has vowed, once again, to stop it with force. Right now, today, this moment is when you need to personally intervene. You can't tell me that you didn't see the earlier tragedy coming- any one with even a casual engagement in the region saw the calamity rushing towards the Mavi Marmara and its crew with the speed of an IDF helicopter. The Rachel Corrie and her crew will be facing the same calamity, soon. Israel will not hesitate to react the same way. We can express regret at the loss of life, call for investigations and demand resolution to the humanitarian crisis in Gaza all we want; but we must first call on Israel not to use deadly force against another humanitarian vessel and the brave souls on board. Outrage will not bring back the 9 dead, but swift, decisive political action could save lives when (and not if) the next confrontation occurs. The siege of Gaza must end, the blockade will be broken, and no amount of bloodshed now will deter further attempts. Israel is now discovering the power of peaceful, determined civilians willing to give their lives to ease the suffering of others; fear of that power could lead to more irrational violence.
Perhaps it is fitting that this ship is named after Rachel Corrie. I wonder, sometimes, if she was surprised when the soldier driving the bulldozer didn't stop, and, had she known, would she have stood her ground? I think she would have. I think the ship that bears her name is full of people who, knowing full well that the helicopters and the commandos will come, that the bulldozer will not stop, are standing up to stop the destruction. They deserve our respect, our support, and, God knows, our protection. Mr. President, you may not have been able to save the 9 dead aboard the Mavi Marmara, but you can save the crew of the Corrie. You, alone, can wield the diplomatic influence to have any hope of stopping an attack on this ship.
I think the point I'm trying to make is that people shouldn't have to die trying to bring supplies to Gaza. People shouldn't have to die trying to protect homes from being destroyed. The International community, and especially the United States, should make the consequences for these kind of human rights abuses so debilitating that no nation would dare conduct itself in this manner and still call itself our ally. These brave people are taking on the responsibility that should belong to all of us, as citizens of this planet. We should stand with them; Israel should be made to know that an attack against the Rachel Corrie is an attack against the United States of America. Don't make them stand alone, Mr. President.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Monday, May 31, 2010
Day 151- Memory in blank verse
Dear Mr. President,
I walked to work today in the pouring rain. My blood still boiling from last night, drums in my ears asking me to keep my compassion, to keep my cool, I walked and sulked and snapped at anything I could think of. I know, today is a day for remembering. Today is a day to remember the girls and boys we put in men's uniforms and gave weapons and made murderers (and murdered.) To remember the suits who sent them to their deaths and destinies. To remember the placid, peaceful suburbs and 3-day only sales we sent them to protect.
Sometimes I feel like I'm watching a microcosm of US history on fast-forward in Palestine. I fear that Palestinians face the same fate as the Native Americans; refugee camps like reservations, ostensible autonomy that creates isolation, not independence, dying traditions and tongues, hunted, then marginalized, disenfranchised, disarmed, disbanded, disappeared. When we remember the soldiers who have died for this country, do we also honor the dead who died for us to take it from them? Where is their bank holiday, their 3-day only sale? I'm so confused today, tangled up in the inevitable contradiction of being an American; of being born with blood on my hands, bearing the burden of an original sin, not against God but against my fellow man. I want to sort out these feelings; to tease out these threads into distinct narratives, of America, of Palestine, of wars and war crimes, to place it all on a timeline that makes sense.
Nothing makes sense today. Grief is giving way to disorientation and disbelief. Some lady was yelling at me about swiping her gift card too many times, because I might scratch it, and people are being taken off of a humanitarian ship in Haifa, to be taken to a room in the Tel Aviv airport, or to a prison cell, a hospital room, or a morgue. I'm just not sure I understand how these realities overlap. I've stepped, too far, off of some undersea shelf, and now I can only tread water. I can't tell if the White House thinks this is bad because it looks bad for Israel, or if, underneath the suits that control the truth, there are fathers who would not see their daughters suffer as daughters of fathers across Gaza are suffering. If you believe your own spin, or if you're saying it in the hopes of making the truth less devastating. Those boys in men's uniforms dropping down zip lines from choppers onto boats were acting in self defense. They were terrified of a truth so horrible it cannot be erased by bulletts. The truth that makes it so much harder to put on the uniform and pick up the gun. It was self defense, and if you say it enough times, it might be true.
In Washington, an unknown tomb is honored. The Schrödinger's cat of Identity. He could be white or black or Native or فلسطيني. Unknown could be any of us, bones bleached anciently to only human. The shifting, changing, contradictory American; he no longer needs to know how to live, it has been answered for him. He might have died for freedom, or security, or national unity; fighting the British, the Union, the Confederates or the Nazis. He might have fallen on a Pacific Island, or a Vietnamese jungle, or an Iraqi city. He might have been young, he might have been frightened, he might have been ready. He knows how to be an American, if he is all of these things.
Walking home, the rain had stopped. A day spent laboring under the layers of glass and steel and light that make up this city had made me tired, but hadn't made sense out of anything. I don't know what I remember and what I've just been told. I was told to remember those who died to make America safe for me. To teach me how to be an American on days like these. Overwhelmed, other people's memories wash over me; of Crow and of Blackfoot and of Cherokee, of Gettysburg and Bull's run and Blakely; of Pearl Harbor, and Dresden and Nagasaki; of Kabul and Baghdad and Karachi. (Of the dead, from a ship, in the darkness between Gaza and Turkey.) Lies are pouring in from men in suits on TV, while witnesses are being processed and discredited, until no one knows what they saw or who shot first. I still know what I believe. The drums haven't stopped. Compassion. Compassion. Compassion. I can't let it be taken from me.
To the dead, today, I remember you. I am humbled by your lives and how you lost them, for me. I still don't know how to be an American the way I am intended to, especially on days like these.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
I walked to work today in the pouring rain. My blood still boiling from last night, drums in my ears asking me to keep my compassion, to keep my cool, I walked and sulked and snapped at anything I could think of. I know, today is a day for remembering. Today is a day to remember the girls and boys we put in men's uniforms and gave weapons and made murderers (and murdered.) To remember the suits who sent them to their deaths and destinies. To remember the placid, peaceful suburbs and 3-day only sales we sent them to protect.
Sometimes I feel like I'm watching a microcosm of US history on fast-forward in Palestine. I fear that Palestinians face the same fate as the Native Americans; refugee camps like reservations, ostensible autonomy that creates isolation, not independence, dying traditions and tongues, hunted, then marginalized, disenfranchised, disarmed, disbanded, disappeared. When we remember the soldiers who have died for this country, do we also honor the dead who died for us to take it from them? Where is their bank holiday, their 3-day only sale? I'm so confused today, tangled up in the inevitable contradiction of being an American; of being born with blood on my hands, bearing the burden of an original sin, not against God but against my fellow man. I want to sort out these feelings; to tease out these threads into distinct narratives, of America, of Palestine, of wars and war crimes, to place it all on a timeline that makes sense.
Nothing makes sense today. Grief is giving way to disorientation and disbelief. Some lady was yelling at me about swiping her gift card too many times, because I might scratch it, and people are being taken off of a humanitarian ship in Haifa, to be taken to a room in the Tel Aviv airport, or to a prison cell, a hospital room, or a morgue. I'm just not sure I understand how these realities overlap. I've stepped, too far, off of some undersea shelf, and now I can only tread water. I can't tell if the White House thinks this is bad because it looks bad for Israel, or if, underneath the suits that control the truth, there are fathers who would not see their daughters suffer as daughters of fathers across Gaza are suffering. If you believe your own spin, or if you're saying it in the hopes of making the truth less devastating. Those boys in men's uniforms dropping down zip lines from choppers onto boats were acting in self defense. They were terrified of a truth so horrible it cannot be erased by bulletts. The truth that makes it so much harder to put on the uniform and pick up the gun. It was self defense, and if you say it enough times, it might be true.
In Washington, an unknown tomb is honored. The Schrödinger's cat of Identity. He could be white or black or Native or فلسطيني. Unknown could be any of us, bones bleached anciently to only human. The shifting, changing, contradictory American; he no longer needs to know how to live, it has been answered for him. He might have died for freedom, or security, or national unity; fighting the British, the Union, the Confederates or the Nazis. He might have fallen on a Pacific Island, or a Vietnamese jungle, or an Iraqi city. He might have been young, he might have been frightened, he might have been ready. He knows how to be an American, if he is all of these things.
Walking home, the rain had stopped. A day spent laboring under the layers of glass and steel and light that make up this city had made me tired, but hadn't made sense out of anything. I don't know what I remember and what I've just been told. I was told to remember those who died to make America safe for me. To teach me how to be an American on days like these. Overwhelmed, other people's memories wash over me; of Crow and of Blackfoot and of Cherokee, of Gettysburg and Bull's run and Blakely; of Pearl Harbor, and Dresden and Nagasaki; of Kabul and Baghdad and Karachi. (Of the dead, from a ship, in the darkness between Gaza and Turkey.) Lies are pouring in from men in suits on TV, while witnesses are being processed and discredited, until no one knows what they saw or who shot first. I still know what I believe. The drums haven't stopped. Compassion. Compassion. Compassion. I can't let it be taken from me.
To the dead, today, I remember you. I am humbled by your lives and how you lost them, for me. I still don't know how to be an American the way I am intended to, especially on days like these.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Day 150- I don't know their names
Dear Mr. President,
2 more names can be added to the ranks of those who have died attempting to stand up to Israeli injustice against the Palestinians. I don't know their names, yet. Dozens are injured, more deaths may be occurring now, as the attack against ships loaded with humanitarian aid continues. I'm not angry, yet. I can feel it, see the shadow as it descends upon me, as I choke back the tears of frustration that precede it. I want to see you respond, Mr. President, I want you to go on TV and tell me why these people are dead and why we are continuing to fund the military that killed them. I want you to explain to me, in your rational way, why this is in our national interest. Tell me why it is acceptable behavior on the part of our ally to use lethal force against a humanitarian ship. This is not about demonizing Israel; I would question our support of any nation that conducted itself in this manner, that used overwhelming and violent force against peaceful dissent.
How is this going to end, Mr. President? How many more innocent will die? How many more? What do you think is going do for our long-term security? Or Israel's? In the time it has taken me to write the above paragraph, the death toll has been estimated to be 10 people. These were unarmed, peaceful activists seeking to bring medical and educational and construction supplies. Please, Mr. President, explain why the education, health and safety of Gazans is so dangerous that it must be prevented with lethal force? I do not want to be a part of this occupation, any longer. I do not want to pay for the weapons being used to murder humanitarian workers. I do not want this to be conducted in my name. If America's policies in this area cannot be changed, I, and the millions of others outraged by this, deserve an explanation.
The death toll is now being reported at 16. How many more will be dead by the time you receive this letter, I cannot say. Will you know their names, Mr. President?
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
2 more names can be added to the ranks of those who have died attempting to stand up to Israeli injustice against the Palestinians. I don't know their names, yet. Dozens are injured, more deaths may be occurring now, as the attack against ships loaded with humanitarian aid continues. I'm not angry, yet. I can feel it, see the shadow as it descends upon me, as I choke back the tears of frustration that precede it. I want to see you respond, Mr. President, I want you to go on TV and tell me why these people are dead and why we are continuing to fund the military that killed them. I want you to explain to me, in your rational way, why this is in our national interest. Tell me why it is acceptable behavior on the part of our ally to use lethal force against a humanitarian ship. This is not about demonizing Israel; I would question our support of any nation that conducted itself in this manner, that used overwhelming and violent force against peaceful dissent.
How is this going to end, Mr. President? How many more innocent will die? How many more? What do you think is going do for our long-term security? Or Israel's? In the time it has taken me to write the above paragraph, the death toll has been estimated to be 10 people. These were unarmed, peaceful activists seeking to bring medical and educational and construction supplies. Please, Mr. President, explain why the education, health and safety of Gazans is so dangerous that it must be prevented with lethal force? I do not want to be a part of this occupation, any longer. I do not want to pay for the weapons being used to murder humanitarian workers. I do not want this to be conducted in my name. If America's policies in this area cannot be changed, I, and the millions of others outraged by this, deserve an explanation.
The death toll is now being reported at 16. How many more will be dead by the time you receive this letter, I cannot say. Will you know their names, Mr. President?
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
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