UF Journalism student
Iñigo Amescua sent this account of his encounter with the pro war forces that gathered to greet anti war protesters in Washington on September 15th.
“What are you looking at? You jerk. Hey what are you doing with your camera freak?”
says the big-clean-cut-hair-Rayban-sun-glasses-fat-guy.
I don’t know if I understand the situation; I don’t say a word. “Hey YOU” – he looks like John Goodman in The Big Lebowski movie without the tender heart: “What are you recording freak?”
I, this time, know what is going on, remember the Marvin Gaye’s song?
I doubt whether to respond him or not… “You shouldn’t”. I think to myself. “You are a journalist, shut up”. I say to myself. And the big-fat guy continues shouting at me while he turns his ridiculously small- chilli-red head towards me like a turtle.
“Damn”, I give up and say, “Why are you insulting me?”
“Oh,” big guy-big belly responds trying to mimic me “poor little guy ‘Why are you insulting me?’” and smiles sardonically.
I, old Spaniard proud pumping in my veins like red hot coal, repeat my question:
“I am working here, I am a journalist, I’m just taking pictures and sound… why you are insulting me?”
And then big-fat-empty-head-guy says: “I am using my freedom of speech”. ZAS! HIS FREEDOM OF SPEECH? WHAT? FREEDOM OF WHAT?
I just stare at him. I really don’t know what to do or say. Should I kick his balls in a wonderful exercise of my freedom of kick-the-asshole-balls? Umm… attractive idea but I should not, I have a student visa, a scholarship, I cannot… I just smile and turn.
I do understand now. You cannot really have a conversation with this kind of person: they don’t understand anything about freedom, liberties or even speech. There is a beautiful middle aged woman with clear blue eyes who comes to me and says in an incredible sweet voice: “I am so embarrassed. You are not even from this country and you are already suffering this behavior.” Gosh, I don’t know what to say either and not just because she looks very fine… she almost embraces me, and tells me she is from New York, and introduces me to a friend of hers who is shooting a documentary about the march.
Later I see all these people lying in the ground just as if they were dead. I see the V-for-Vendetta masked veteran, the girl with the fake blood in her face, the photos of the dead boys in the chest of their mothers: I see the ardour in the eyes, the excitement, the hope, and the old delusion floating everywhere although nobody wants to recognise it.
I talk with Don the veteran in his wheelchair; he talks about his pain, his wounds (the ones that I can tell from the outside and the ones that are inside), his dead friend Ray, and his pretty Vietnamese wife dead in a terrorist attack in Saigon. I have just met him but I cannot help but embrace him while he cries. I hate it, I don’t like the possibility of being too emotional, but I do CAN’T HELP IT, this man is suffering, he has been suffering for 40 years now. He says “thank you” in quiet manner.
The big white dome of the Capitol floats above our heads like a birthday cake made of cream.
See Iñigo's photos from Washington and his blog
And why does our corporate media keep repeating this Goebbels-like propaganda? Do we really live in an Orwellian state?
Thank you phony soldier. I remember sitting around with the phony soldiers that could have been their fathers. We spoke of our fathers and the battles of the big one. We called ours "the long one". I hope when this mess is over you will not do as we did and shut up about what a stupid thing it is. We were the winter soldiers, from a Thomas Paine pamphlet. Look it up.
Talk about it. Believe in the promise of America. It is no crime or shame. The crime is betraying the trust we have in that promise.
Always remember: Democracy is a participatory team sport. As with any sport, the better you know the rules the better your team performs. Stay in touch and help each other through low spots. Hold your head up and make sure your children learn from you. Teach them better than we taught you.