Introduction to War for Peace
When I heard Colin Powell give his speech—upon the face of it, so full of lies—I knew the cause was lost. The United Nations accepted it, and the American populace, or at least that segment of it that was most active and vocal, clearly supported the idea of a war, and presented itself as staunchly pro-invasion.
The anti-war cause stirred up rallies here and there—famously, even a speech by not yet senator of Illinois Barack Obama—but little movement else. There was talk, in Chicago (and elsewhere, as I recall) of putting on a two thousand year old play by Aristophanes that was vaguely anti-war but not strictly applicable to the situation at hand, the proposed invasion of a sovereign nation which had not harmed us, nor threatened to do so, and in which, at that moment (until they got kicked out under American pressure and before completion of their task) international arms inspectors were busily proving—as has been confirmed amply by hindsight—that the capacity to do so was absent. As Bob Lassiter had said during the first Gulf War, Sadaam's "war machine has not even so much as raised a fist in response," and was much less able to after a decade of sanctions.
Still, I thought, possibly, if the right play could be put on, something new and created expressly for that purpose—even as Aristophanes' plays had been tailored to the exigencies of the moment—maybe the tide could be turned, or slightly diverted. If not stemming the overwhelming pro-invasion rhetoric and support, at least it might contribute to the splintering off of some of it. At the very least, I thought, having no impact, the presentation of the play would show, and affix in the historic record, so to speak, that a small band of theater people had raised their voice in protest, thereby affirming that the pro-war chorus had not been unanimous.
I set to work immediately writing and typing the play—proofing and printing it with an efficiency I had developed over the course of many years, though even the pace of its composition surprised me: from the moment I first took up my pen till when I had a printed and bound copy in hand, less than a week transpired. Simultaneously, of course, I was sending out emails and making phonecalls, to local theater companies (none of which had ever been responsive to my work much in the past), in search of like-minded individuals that wanted to make a statement against the rush to war—a "war of choice" as Senator Robert Byrd so aptly named it. Printed copy in hand, my efforts redoubled, and I even set out on foot to some of the smallest storefront companies within my geographic compass. Needless to say, those like-minded individuals were never found, though I did get two commitments by theaterly-connected people to read it.
One, presumably realizing the urgency of any such proposed undertaking, got back to me within a week or so's time, but found the play too obvious. Why, if it was so obvious, I wondered, would you not rush to do something to prevent or forestall the massive bloodletting that was sure to take place if the invasion went ahead as planned? Blood, as actor Sean Penn would say, that would wind up on American hands.
The other, busy with some production at the Goodman (where she had me leave off a copy of the script), never got to it in a month's time, and, when I saw that the clock had effectively run out, I returned to retrieve it from a security guard, never meeting with the lady in question who was still mightily enwrapped in her production. I hope the production was worth her while, and justified the neglect of her civic duty. It was not uncommon for me to find people with other pressing commitments which prevented them from thinking about the war.
One lady, who had hosted a play reading of mine in the past, planned to do so again—until she remembered she was having her kitchen redone and could not accommodate. I tried to schedule it at my inadequate apartment, hoping, if not theater professionals, at least theater students or even possibly persons off the street, might take an interest: an ad hoc performance in the park would be better than nothing, as it became clear that established theater companies, including the most small and tenuous, would have neither the will nor the flexibility to move on anything in a timely fashion, so locked into the set multi-production season which present day funding and season ticket sales have entrenched.
The idea was greeted with enthusiasm as I called then faxed to theater departments a flyer for the proposed reading; and I even took one phonecall from someone who felt that an anti-war play would be a good idea—but no one came.
"And the war came," as Lincoln said; though, finally, when it became evident that even the minutest interest could not be drummed up, I withdrew from what had been a round-the-clock effort in promotion, rather to write my book The Condemnation which was finished before the first bombs began to rain on Iraq. It, along with Against Holy War and this play, represents—irrespective success or failure of the venture—perhaps my proudest achievement as an artist.
Soon, a decade will have passed since completion of this first work; and already the fateful year of 2003 lies far behind us—yet I do not think the intervening time has proven the stance I took to have been incorrect. Victory has been achieved in Iraq, if victory can be considered the decimation of a country, with perhaps upwards of a million human deaths which otherwise needn't have occurred (and even greater displacement). But conflicts continue to rage in Iraq and in Afghanistan—no easy conclusion to either of these lies in sight—and the can of worms which has been opened will not easily be sealed, save possibly with the aggregation of so much accumulated time that present interests and present passions have been but dimly remembered.
These three works, but most especially War for Peace, represent relics of the time. When the context surrounding this dramatic effort has been washed away—eroded by eons as it were—it may prove itself to have been the least well-rooted. Such is the nature of drama, and most especially of comedy. Yet bolstered by so much of the momentous context which can never be washed away, until the latest date perhaps, it may yet hold its place in the soil, even as Sean Penn's words of December 15, 2002, I hope, will be remembered:
I am a citizen of the United States of America. I believe in the Constitution of the United States, and the American people. Ours is a government designed to function ‘of’-‘by’-and-‘for’ the people. I am one of those people, and a privileged one.
I am privileged in particular to raise my children in a country of high standards in health, welfare, and safety. I am also privileged to have lived a life under our Constitution that has allowed me to dream and prosper. In response to these privileges I feel, both as an American and as a human being, the obligation to accept some level of personal accountability for the policies of my government, both those I support and any that I may not. Simply put, if there is a war or continued sanctions against Iraq, the blood of Americans and Iraqis alike will be on our hands.
My trip here is to personally record the human face of the Iraqi people so that their blood—along with that of American soldiers—would not be invisible on my own hands. I sit with you here today in the hopes that any of us present may contribute in any way to a peaceful resolution to the conflict at hand.
I tried to contact Penn's and a few other production companies outside of Chicago before giving up the effort, all to no avail. The theme of the play was provided by a dream I had several days before embarking upon it—in which a backyard barbecue exploded, but I and another fellow managed to jump ourselves across a fence into safety in the nick of time. Although I had no such notion at the time, with retrospect I like to think that he may have been Penn, with whom I have no acquaintance, and it is to him—the actor in his courage at a time when few others in his profession displayed it—that I would have publication of this play dedicated. He had much to lose, and sacrificed much in the cause of justice, unlike so many others—the small multitude in Chicago, as marched on Lake Shore Drive after the bombs had begun to fall: too little too late.
This play—and the other two books of which I made mention—may have been too little, but I am eternally grateful that they did not come too late. The circumstances created them, even more than my talent (but so it is with art), but I am privileged to have been the conduit whereby they came to be. War for Peace may never see production during my lifetime, and when it does, conditions will certainly have changed to render it less than what it might have been; but ours is not to regret the lost potential.
Outmoded relics and artifacts yet may serve a purpose, if but to jog the memory. A great travesty was perpetrated in Iraq and upon its people—that this remains largely unacknowledged by the American people today, at both the highest and lowest levels, remains moot; but the play, if never so forceful or prescient as I might like, may not be muted, but sends forth, across the chasm of time and inevitable apathy (or posed nonchalance) its condemnation and criticism of the people which enacted such a travesty.
Such travesties may, from time to time, be visited upon the world while there is man. It is my hope, however, that the play serves to remind its readers (or even one day, God willing, an audience), that although we dwell in what appears to be a sea of conformity, all need not conform. It is in this that the human personality is rooted.
6 June 2010
This play—and the other two books of which I made mention—may have been too little, but I am eternally grateful that they did not come too late. The circumstances created them, even more than my talent (but so it is with art), but I am privileged to have been the conduit whereby they came to be. War for Peace may never see production during my lifetime, and when it does, conditions will certainly have changed to render it less than what it might have been; but ours is not to regret the lost potential.
Outmoded relics and artifacts yet may serve a purpose, if but to jog the memory. A great travesty was perpetrated in Iraq and upon its people—that this remains largely unacknowledged by the American people today, at both the highest and lowest levels, remains moot; but the play, if never so forceful or prescient as I might like, may not be muted, but sends forth, across the chasm of time and inevitable apathy (or posed nonchalance) its condemnation and criticism of the people which enacted such a travesty.
Such travesties may, from time to time, be visited upon the world while there is man. It is my hope, however, that the play serves to remind its readers (or even one day, God willing, an audience), that although we dwell in what appears to be a sea of conformity, all need not conform. It is in this that the human personality is rooted.
6 June 2010